. 
-•• 


BY  AND  LARGE 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

X  X  *€ 

Tobogganing  on  Parnassus 
In  Oiler  Words 


BY  AND  LARGE 


BY 


FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW    YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  1914,  "by 
DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE  &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 

Copyright,   1914,  by 

THE  TRIBUNE  ASSOCIATION 

Copyright,   1910,  1911,  1912,  1913,  by 

THE  MAIL  &  EXPRESS  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1912,  1913,  by 
THE  METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1908,  by 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Q.  H.  F.'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  BOOK 

Horace:  Book  I,  Epistola  20. 

"Vertumnum  Janumque,  liber,  spectare  videris — " 

Ho,  ambitious  little  book! 
Wan  and  wistful  is  your  look, 
Think  you  that  a  lyricist 
E'er  could  lead  The  Bookman's  list? 
Get  you  gone,  and,  booklet,  learn, 
Once  away  there's  no  return. 
Yerses  fashioned  for  a  colyum, 
Who  told  you  you  were  a  volume? 

How  you  will  be  torn  and  squeezed, 
When  the  reader  is  appeased! 
Moths  and  bookworms  will  devour 
All  those  lines  of  light  and  power! 
Should  arise  one  C2k 
Whether  I  am  grave  or  gay, 
Say  that  be  who  runs  this  Steeple 
Came  from  free  and  honest  people. 

Tell  him  I  am  short  and  stout, 
Nor  recluse  nor  gadabout; 
Tell  him  that  I  have,  alack! 
Silver  Threads  among  the  Black. 
Tell  him,  though  my  temper's  warm, 
Quickly  vanishes  my  storm, 
And  my  years  —  THAT  /  remember  — 
Fwe-and-forty  next  December! 


948179 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Q.  H.F.'s  Address  to  His  Book     ....  v 

Business  of  Bowing 3 

The  Reconciliation 5 

Q.  H.  F.  Moralizes  on  the  Springtide       .     .  8 

Maecenas  Is  Invited  to  Have  a  Drink      .     .  10 

Pyrrha  the  Flirtatious 1 1 

Q.H.F.  Swears  Off 12 

Horace  to  Chloe 13 

The  Stalling  of  Q.H.F 14 

The  Dauntless  Bard 16 

The  Suburban  Craze  in  Rome      ....  18 

The  Propertian  Fancy 19 

A  Tip  to  Ponticus 20 

A  Warning  to  Bassus 22 

The  Pifflosophy  of  Anacreon 24 

O,  I  Went  Down  to  the  River  Bank! ...  25 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Cooks 27 

"If" 35 

Culinary  Imperfections 38 


Contents 

PAGE 

In  a  Manner  of  Writing 40 

Ezra  Pound's  or  Amy  Lowell's    .     .  40 

James  Whitcomb  Riley's  ....  40 

Robert  W.  Service's 41 

The  Ball  Game 43 

I.  By  Our  Own  John  Masefield  ...  43 

II.  By  Our  Own  Ring  W.  Lardner     .      .  47 

III.  By  Our  Own  William  Wordsworth    .  50 

IV.  By  Our  Own  William  De  Morgan    .  51 

Basebalderdash 61 

To  Julia  Legion      .      .      .     .      .     .     .     .  63 

A  Warning  to  Myrtilla 64 

Pavlowa 65 

To  Myrtilla 67 

Yet  the  Sempiternal  Folly  Is  Hers     ...  68 

To  the  Present  Gibson  Girl 69 

Ballade  of  Girls  Who  Attend  the  Princeton- 
Yale  and  Yale-Harvard  Football  Games  .  70 

To  the  Redfern  Corset  Lady 72 

The  Tired  Business  Man's  Song  ....  73 

The  Cabaret  Bards 76 

The  "Punch" 81 

The  Neo-Neoism 82 

To  the  Neo-Pseudoists 84 

One  Never  Knows 85 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  Exiles 87 

A  Philippic 89 

No  Offence,  Sir 90 

Why  the  Socialist  Party  Is  Growing  .     .     .  92 

The  Ballad  of  the  Two  Lame  Men     ...  93 

The  Ballad  of  the  Sorrowfull  Bride  ...  95 

Cui  Culpa? 98 

Monody  on  the  Astor  House 100 

Bermuda 102 

Mates  for  the  Mateless .104 

"  In  Such  A  Night—  " 106 

Clothes,  the  Birth  Rate,  Etc 107 

The  Downward  Course 109 

Lines  Written  after  Re-Reading  Gray's 
"Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church 
yard''  and  Realizing  that  Eight  Years 

Were  Given  to  Its  Composition    .      .     .  in 

On  Emulation 113 

Bright  Saffron  Sheets 114 

Do  You  Know? 115 

W.  S. —  1564-1914 117 

Composed  in  the  Composing  Room   .     .     .  119 

Eugenic  Love  Lyrics 120 

Speaking  of  Robert  Burns 122 

The  Battle  of  Swatterloo 123 


Contents 

PAGE 

Speaking  of  Suffrage 124 

The  Optative  Mood 125 

Lines  on  Blushing  for  "Punch"  .     .     .     .  127 

To  Those  Concerned 1 29 

"  1  Remember,  I  Remember" 130 

The  Landing  of  the  New  Haven  Fathers  on 

New  England  and  Environs      ....  1 32 

With  Genuflexions 134 

O  Ever  Thus! 135 

On  the  Usufruct  of  Worrying 137 

To  the  Just  Graduated 138 

On  Morningside  Heights 139 

Ballade  of  a  Jaded  Imagination    ....  140 

As  to  an  Urban  Summer  .'....  142 

A  Lexicographer's  Love-Poem     .     .     .     .  144 

The  Wet  Blanket  Legion 146 

The  Monument  of  Q.  Horatius  Flaccus  .     .  148 


BY  AND  LARGE 


BY  AND  LARGE 


BUSINESS  OF  BOWING 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  32. 

AD    LYRAM 

"  Poscimur.     Si  quid  vacui  sub  umbra  — " 

Help  me,  my  lute,  if  we  have  made, 
What  time  I  twanged  thee  in  the  shade, 

A  song  to  make  the  people  cry, 

Like  "When  the  Swallows  Homeward  Fly'* 
Or  Mr.  Schubert's  serenade  — 

If,  I  repeat,  we've  ever  played 
Some  song  for  which  the  public  paid, 
Yet  said:  "This  Horace  is  some  guy" — 
Help  me,  my  lute! 

3 


By  and  Large 

Thine  erstwhile  owner,  unafraid, 

Sang  Love  and  Wine    .     .     .     If  we  invade 
What  themes  soever,  thou  and  I, 
Down  here  on  Nassau  Street,  N.  Y., 

I'll  reckon  on  thy  well-known  aid     .     .     . 
Help  me,  my  lute! 


THE  RECONCILIATION 

Horace:  Book  III,  Ode  9. 

"  Donee  tram  grains  tibi — " 
HORACE 

Lyddy,  am  I  right  or  wrong? 

Was  I  there?     Did  I  belong? 

Did  you  not  —  you  know  you  did  — 

Call  me  once  the  Headline  Kid? 

I  had  everybody  stopped; 

Persian  potentates  I  topped; 

Dun  and  Bradstreet,  if  you'd  love  me, 

Wouldn't  rate  a  king  above  me. 

LYDIA 

Friend  Horatius,  all  that  you 

Say  is  absolutely  true. 

I  was  happy  as  a  queen 

When  —  oh,  you  know  what  I  mean. 

5 


By  and  Large 

When  you  gave  no  Chloe  praise, 
Them,  ah,  them  was  happy  days! 
When  you  used  to  coax  and  con  me 
Ilia's  self  had  nothing  on  me. 

HORACE 

Thracian  Chloe  —  she's  a  bear  — 
Has  Q.  H.  up  in  the  air; 
Her  I  lamp  without  fatigue; 
Chloe  leads  the  Flaccus  League. 
Listen:   I'm  a  selfish  guy, 
But. I'd  really  love  to  die 
If  I  thought  she'd  get  a  giggle 
At  my  mortuary  wriggle. 

LYDIA 

Speaking,  as  you  often  do, 
Of  affection,  I'm  there,  too. 
Who  is  my  idea  of  joy? 
Calais  —  and  quantus  boy. 
Why,  if  I  believed  that  he 
Could  elicit  any  glee 
From  the  sentence  Lydia  non  est, 
I'd  bichloride.     I  would,  honest. 

6 


The  Reconciliation 

HORACE 

Lyddy,  listen,  get  me  right: 
Do  you  think  perhaps  we  might 
Sort  of  start  it  up  again 
As  'twas  in  the  glorious  When? 
If  I  tell  this  Chloe  that 
"i  am  going  to  leave  her,  flat, 
Do  you  think  that  you  would  let  me 
Write  to  you,  and?  —  well,  you  get  me. 

LYDIA 

Listen,  Horace,  though  you  be 
Roaring  as  the  raging  sea 
Though  he  be  a  Broadway  sign, 
I'm  for  you  —  Q.  H.  for  mine. 
Whether  you're  the  ocean's  roar, 
Angry  and  ferocious;    or 
Lighter  than  a  cork,  and  giddy, 
I  am  yours 

Sincerely, 

LYDDY 


Q.  H.  F.  MORALIZES  ON  THE  SPRINGTIDE 

AD    SEXTIUM 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  4. 

"Solvitur  acris  hi  ems  grata  vice  veris  et  Favoni—" 

The  backbone  of  winter  is  broken ; 

The  river  is  running  with  shad; 
The  phrases  of  baseball  are  spoken 

In  pictures  by  Briggs  or  by  Tad. 
The  cattle  come  out  of  the  stable; 

The  nymphs  do  the  dip  and  the  swing; 
The  rhubarb  appears  on  the  table; 
In  short,  it  is  spring. 

In  grottoes  excessively  shady 

We'll  offer  a  lamb  or  a  kid 
To  Pan ;  and  to  Rosie  or  Sadie 

A  nellygunt  two-dollar  lid. 
But  —  pipe  to  the  words  of  the  poet : 

You'll  die,  be  you  beggar  or  king. 
You  simply  can't  beat  it,  although  it 
Appears  to  be  spring. 

8 


Q.  H.  F.  Moralises  on  the  Springtide 

Though  fortune  may  pamper  and  pet  you 
Though   you    be    bewreathed    and    be- 

pearled, 
The  jolly  old  Reaper  will  get  you; 

You  ain't  got  a  chance  in  the  world. 
No  Lycidas,  no  dice  —  I  give  warning  — 

In  Pluto's  domain  —  not  a  thing. 
But  still  —  we  are  living  this  morning, 
And  gosh!  it  is  Spring! 


MAECENAS  IS  INVITED  TO  HAVE  A  DRINK 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  20. 

"yile  potabis  modicis  Sabinum — " 

Maecenas,  let  us  have  a  drink; 
I  have  a  lot  of  Sabine  ink, 
Wine  of  a  cheap  domestic  sort, 
At  four  denarii  the  quart. 

I  brewed  the  wine  myself  the  day 
The  cries  of  "  Prosit ! "  and  "  Hooray ! " 
For  you,  from  all  the  Roman  pop., 
Echoed  from  stream  to  mountain-top. 

Buy  Qecuban,  if  so  you  will, 
Or  drink  from  the  Calenian  still, 
Falernian,  Formian  at  your  home  — 
But  not  at  his  who  writes  this  pome. 


IO 


PYRRHA  THE  FLIRTATIOUS 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  5. 

"  Quts  multa  gracilis  te  puer  in  rosa — " 
AD    PYRRHAM 

Who  is  the  arrowcollar  kid 

You're  playing  in  the  grot  with? 

For  whom  the  zippy  Leghorn  lid? 
Whom  do  you  do  the  trot  with? 

Ha!  Get  me  giggling,  while  I  think 
How  smooth  appears  the  ocean 

To  him,  the  unsuspecting  gink  — 
But  oh!   that  wavy  motion! 

1  weep  for  them  that  are  not  joe, 
That  think  you  sweet  and  clever. 

Spear  it  from  one  who's  in  the  know 
I'm  off  your  lay  forever. 


Q.  H.  F.  SWEARS  OFF 

Horace:  Book  HI,  Ode  26. 

"  Vixi  puellis  nuper  idoneus  — " 

Till  recently  I  used  to  call 

On  any  frail  who  would  receive  me. 
I  frivoled  with  them  one  and  all  — 

I  was  some  fusser,  too,  believe  me. 

But  now  to  Venus  I  shall  give 
My  xylophone  and  tennis  racquet. 

For  me  no  longer  while  I  live, 
The  roles  of  Faversham  and  Hackett 

However,  Venus,  O  thou  queen, 
Take  up  thy  lash  or  stick  or  Bowie. 

And  let  it  fall  upon  the  bean 
Of  naughty,  haughty,  beauty  Chloe. 


HORACE  TO  CHLOE 

Book  I,  Ode  23. 

binnuleo  me  similis,  Cbloe  —  " 


Dear  Chloe,  why  so  frightened  by 

The  harmless  presence  of  Horatius? 
I'm  not  a  bear  that  wants  to  scare  — 
Don't  be  fugacious. 

Yet  like  a  fawn  you  leave  the  lawn 

When  I  approach.    If  you  would  let  me, 
I'd  say  that  you  were  twenty-two     .    .   . 
There,  do  you  get  me? 


THE  STALLING  OF  Q.  H.  F. 

Horace:  Epodc  XIV. 

"  Mollis  inertia  cur  tantam  dijjuderit  imis  —  " 

Maecenas,  you  appal  me 
With  your  demand  for  rhyme, 

Because  —  the  names  you  call  me! 
My  stuff's  not  done  on  time! 

You  think  I'm  steeped  in  slumber 

And  that  you  have  my  number. 


Oh,  well,  youVe  got  to  know  it, 
You  ask  me  why  I  shirk; 

It's  Love  that  keeps  this  poet 
From  getting  down  to  work; 

It's  Cupid  that's  upset  me; 

It's  —  well,  I  guess  you  get  me. 
14 


The  Stalling  of  Q.  H.  F. 

How  fain  was  to  philander 

Anacreon  the  great ! 
And  —  far  from  me  to  slander  - 

You  like  to  keep  a  date. 
So,  while  I'm  thrall  to  Phryne, 
My  pomes  continue  tiny. 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BARD 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  22. 

"  Integer  mix,  scelerisque  purus  —  " 

O  Fuscus,  if  your  heart  be  true, 
If  you  be  but  a  righteous  liver, 

No  Moorish  bow  need  bother  you, 
Nor  arrows  from  a  foeman's  quiver. 

Duluth,  Winona,  Kankakee, 

South  Framingham  and  points  adjacent  • 
It  matters  not  where  you  may  be, 

If  but  your  conscience  be  complacent. 

Why,  once  when  I  was  singing  of 
My  Lalage  —  need  I  repeat  it?  — 

A  wolf  that  heard  my  song  of  love 
Gave  me  a  look  and  straightway  beat  it. 
16 


The  Dauntless  Bard 

Put  me  where  it  is  cold  or  hot. 

Where  water's  ice,  or  where  it's  b'iling, 
I'll  sing  —  who  likes  my  stuff  or  not  — 

My  Lalage  so  sweetly  smiling. 


THE  SUBURBAN  CRAZE  IN  ROME 

Catullus:  Ode  26. 

Your  bungalow,  my  Furius,  is  not  up  against 

the  wind 
East,  west  or  north  or  even  south  —  in  fact, 

not  any  kind; 
But  up  against  a  cyclone  that  has  emptied  all 

your  purses  — 
A  mortgage  of  a  trifle  over  fifteen  thou- 

sesterces. 


18 


THE  PROPERTIAN  FANCY 

AD   TULLUM 

* 

Fropertius:  Book  I,  Elegy  14. 

"  Tu  licet  abjectus  Tibernia  molliter  unda — " 

Though  you  decline  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber, 
Drinking  some  excellent  dope; 

Though  you're  considerable  Lesbian  imbiber, 
Would  I  exchange  with  you?  .  .Nope. 

Wine  and  the  wealth  of  a  teacher  of  dancing, 
Loveless,  were  naught  but  a  curse. 

Cynthia  for  me,  with  her  vernal  romancing 
Which  I  can  put  into  verse. 


A  TIP  TO  PONTICUS 

Proper  t ius:  Elegy  7. 

"  Dum  tibi  Cadmeae  dicuntur,  Pontice,  Thelce — " 

What  time  thou  singest  martial  airs 

As  well  as  Homer  ever  did  — 

O  Ponticus,  I  scorn  to  kid !  — 
I  sing  about  some  fluff. 

Some  Fluff  is  right.     I  sing  her  praise. 

Thus  do  I  spend  my  whole  career; 

That  is  my  total  cause  for  cheer, 
Mine  only  claim  to  bays. 

Let  luckless  lovers  note  the  same, 
And  let  them  learn  what  I  have  learned; 
For  children  that  have  once  been  burned 

May  shun  the  flame. 

20 


A  Tip  to  Ponticus 

Shouldst  thou  be  wishful  to  create 
The  softer,  sweeter  songs  of  Love, 
And  cease  to  sing  of  sword  and  glove, 

Twill  be  too  late. 

Then  shalt  thou  marvel,  full  of  ruth, 
.  How  fine  have  been  my  songs,  how  great ! 
Beware  of  love  that  cometh  late! 
Ain't  it  the  truth? 


21 


A  WARNING  TO  BASSUS 

Proper  tius:  Book  I,  Ode  5. 

"  Quid  mibi  tarn  multas  laudando.     Basse,  puellas.     Mutalum 
domina  cogis  abire  mea?  " 

Why,  Bassus,  do  you  tell  me  of 

A  million  maids  I  cry  "Pooh!  Pooh!"  to? 
Think  you  that  1  shall  ever  love 

Any  but  her  I  now  am  true  to? 

O  why  not  suffer  me  to  slave 

As  thrall  to  one  who  understands  me, 
From  now  until  the  very  grave, 

No  matter  what  the  future  hands  me? 

Antiope  was  quelque  queen, 

Hermione  was  passing  pretty; 
But  none  was  1-2-17 

With  Cynthia,  heroine  of  this  ditty. 

22 


A  Warning  to  Bassus 

Yet  pulchritude  is  not  her  all; 

Her  color  and  her  grace  are  —  oh,  what 
The  French,  who  phrase  it  fitly,  call 

Elusively  her  I-don't-know-what. 

The  more  you  try  to  have  it  cease, 
The  more  you  seek  our  love  to  sever, 

By  so  much  more  will  it  increase, 
For  we  have  vowed  to  never-never. 

And  when  my  Cynthia  comes  to  hear 
Of  how  you  sought  to  dim  her  glamour, 

She'll  smite  you  with  her  lingual  spear 
And  hit  you  with  her  verbal  hammer. 

For  loss  of  love  —  of  such  a  love 
As  mine  for  her,  though  I  do  say  so  — 

Cannot  be  borne     .      .     .     O  ye  above, 
I  pray  that  she  may  ever  stay  so! 


THE  PIFFLOSOPHY  OF  ANACREON 

Fill,  oh,  fill  the  punch  tureen; 
Twine  the  roses  round  my  bean ! 
Flowers  are  fair  and  wine  is  gay  — 
Let  us  be  as  bright  as  they! 
Garlanded  we  well  may  frown 
At  old  Gyges'  costly  crown. 

Ours  the  present;  why  beware 
Of  the  future's  woe  and  care? 
Ours  the  present;  treat  it  well 
Lest  we  break  the  happy  spell. 
Though  to-morrow  bring  the  ache, 
We  should  fret  and  lie  awake ! 


O,  I  WENT  DOWN  TO  THE  RIVER  BANK! 

O,  I  went  down  to  the  river  bank 

Last  night, 

When  a  million  stars  were  bright 
And  you  in  the  long  grass  lay. 

O,  the  wind  blew  over  the  river  bank 

Last  night, 

And  the  touch  of  your  lips  was  light 
As  we  in  the  warm  grass  lay. 

O,  I  came  up  from  the  river  bank 
Alone, 

While  the  weary  wind  made  mean, 

And  the  dawn  on  the  crushed  grass  lay. 

— RUTH  THOMAS  PICKERING,  Vassar,  '14,  in 

Miscellany  for  February,  1914. 

TO   RUTH 

O,  I  read  all  of  your  poem,  Ruth, 

Last  night, 

And  I  said  "To  the  colyum's  height 
With  that  there  little  lay." 
25 


By  and  Large 

O,  I  gave  some  thought  to  your  poem,  Ruth, 

Last  night, 

And  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  write 
The  lady  who  wrote  that  lay. 

O,  I  am  keen  for  your  lyric,  Ruth. 

It  smokes! 

But  -—  how  did  it  hit  your  folks 
When  they  read  their  daughter's  lay? 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  COOKS 

PROLOGUE 

Years,  years  agone,  or  ever  I  had  come 
To  Social  Problems  and  the  World's  Ad 
vance; 

Or  that  Reform  and  Sin  had  made  me  dumb 
To  good  o.  f.  Romance; 

While  still  1  fell  for  Dickens  and  for  Scott, 

While  A.  B.  Frost  was  what  I  knew  of  Art, 
When  Love  —  in  short,  before  I  knew  a  lot 
Of  everything,  in  part  — 

Back  in  those  days  of  measles  and  of  croups — 
If  you  insist,  in  Eighteen  Ninety  Three  — 
Tennyson's  Poems  and  the  Rogers  Groups 
Were  everything  to  me. 

27 


By  and  Large 

And  but  on  yesternight  again  I  read, 

Browsing  among  my  dust-encrusted  books, 
A  Dream  of  Women  Fair;  whereat  I  said: 
"A  Dream  —  ha !  —  of  Fair  Cooks ! " 

And  so,  as  Browning'd  say,  I  did  'gin  write 

A  lyric  sequence  to  our  many  maids 
Of  all  work  —  from  the  sturdy  to  the  slight, 
Of  varied  shapes  and  shades. 


I 

GRETCHEN 

O  blonde  and  bland  Bavarian, 

No  longer  in  the  flat 
Of  this  here  proletarian 

Dost  thou  hang  up  thy  hat. 

Allowing  what  I  could  for  it  — 
That  awful  hat  —  I  think 

That  hanging  was  too  good  for  it 
A  mass  of  green  and  pink! 
28 


A  Dream  of  Fair  Cooks 

No  longer  dost  thou  stay  with  us, 

No  longer  rise  at  eight. 
Meseems  thou  got'st  too  gay  with  us, 

Wherefore  thou  got'st  the  gate. 

I  trust  thy  prodigality 
With  butter,  eggs,  and  cream 

Will  carry  no  penality 
Under  thy  new  regime. 

Farewell!  I  cannot  jest  at  thee, 

1  can  do  naught  but  hurl 
My  wishes  —  all  the  best  —  at  thee, 

Farewell,  poor  little  girl! 


II 


THE    FINN 

0  mendacious  maid  and  shameless, 
Vowed  to  come  a  week  ago, 

1  must  lyricize  you  nameless, 
For  your  name  I  do  not  know. 

20 


By  and  Large 

Guileless,  I  have  no  suspicion 
Some  one  else  might  be  a  crook; 

You  Accepted  that  Position, 
And  I  said:  "We  have  a  cook." 

When,  a  Danish  damsel  scorning, 

On  yourself  we  did  decide, 
And  you  said:  "On  Monday  morning/' 

Little  did  I  think  you  lied. 

Nine  o'clock  —  ten  —  and  eleven  — 
At  the  memory  reason  spins! 

You  came  not  ...  I  cried  to  Heaven: 
"Vent  my  fury  on  the  Finns!" 

Wrathful  penned  I  this  indenture, 
Frenzied  wrote  this  angry  screed 

At  your  perfidy.     I'll  venture 
Eight  to  five  you  cannot  read. 

Ill 

MARTHA 

O  Martha,  mirthful  I  and  gay, 
No  longer  am  I  thrall  to  sorrow, 
30 


A  Dream  of  Fair  Cooks 

For,  Martha,  thou  art  here  to-day 
And  gone  to-morrow. 

Gone  to  another,  where  thy  lot, 

I  trust,  I  pray,  may  be  less  rotten. 

Thou'rt  nearly  gone,  but,  Martha,  not, 

Not  quite  forgotten. 

Four  weeks  thou  tarried'st  in  our  midst  — 

Tarried'st  is  right  —  of  cooks  the  slowest. 
I  sing,  in  view  of  all  thou  didst, 
What  time  thou  goest. 

Thou  couldst  not  cook,  thou  couldst  not  wait 
On  table  —  oh,  the  things  thou  couldst  not ! 
The  sentences  I  begged  to  state 
Thou  understood'st  not. 


"Farewell"  —  I  quote  Lord  Byron's  song  — 

" Farewell" —  and  if  the  fates  demand  it 
Shall  be  forever,  I'll  be  strong 
And  try  to  stand  it. 
31 


By  and  Large 


IV 


LENA.      REEL  NO.  I. 

I  pray  that  I  am  not  egregiously  gross; 

I  hope  I  shall  always  be  able 
To  keep  from  becoming  unduly  verbose 

Concerning  the  joys  of  the  table. 


What    time    that    Parnassus    may    be    my 

address, 

And  Pierian  springs  I  may  drink  of, 
I  hope  none  will  say,  as  he  reads:   "Well,  I 

guess 
Provisions  is  all  he  can  think  of/' 


Yet  Food  hath  its  place  —  and  its  place  is  the 

home  — 

Sound,  psalter!  and  sound,  concertina! 
For  I  am  about  to  deliver  a  pome, 
The  theme  of  the  same  being  Lena. 
32 


A  Dream  of  Fair  Cooks 

The  coffee  she  brews!  and  the  eggs  that  she 

boils! 

Her  soups  and  her  French  fried  potatoes! 
The  pies  that  she  bakes  and  the  steaks  that 

she  broils! 
And  oh!  how  she  fixes  tomatoes! 

She's  pleasant  to  talk  to  and  pleasant  to  see — 
(Poor  Martha!    her  gloom  was  atrocious! 

Poor  Gretchen!    she  thought   I  was  Simon 

Legree, 
While  truly  Fm  far  from  ferocious). 

0  Lena,  sincerely  I  put  in  my  song 
The  whole  of  my  earnest  endeavor. 

1  can't,  I  am  sure,  make  it  any  too  strong: 

I  hope  you'll  stay  with  us  forever. 

LENA.       REEL  NO.  2. 

I  thought  her  a  wonder,  a  treasure,  a  pearl, 

And  time  and  again  I  confessed  it  ; 
The  praise  and  the  presents  I  gave  to  that 

girl! 

And  now  she  has  gone    .    .     .    You  have 
guessed  it. 

33 


By  and  Large 

Gone    .     .     .    gone    .     .     .    and  my  life 

is  a  terrible  thing; 
I'm  dull  and  morose  and  I  mutter. 
I  haven't  been  gay  since  the  day  she  took 

wing 
And  two  cakes  of  soap  and  some  butter. 

She  used  to  have  Thursdays  and  Saturdays 

out, 

Each  evening,  did  she  demand  it; 
And  now  that  she's  faded,  it  fills  me  with 

doubt; 
It  beats  me;  I  can't  understand  it. 

I  never  could  question  the  motives  that  gov- 

Ern  most  of  a  lady's  decisions. 
Perhaps  it  was  right  to  dissemble  her  love, 

But  —  why  did  she  swipe  the  provisions? 

Ah,  baffling  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid  — 

It  raises  particular  hob. 
But  where  is  the  pen  that  has  ever  portrayed 

The  way  of  a  maid  with  a  job? 

34 


"IF" 

Addressed,  with  obeisances  to  Joseph  R.  Kipling,  the  veil-known 

English  author,  to  some  young  woman  who  desires 

Economic  Independence 

If  you  can  keep  your  job  when  all  about  you 

Are  leaving  theirs  for  something  more  a 

week; 

If  you  can  smile  when  some  one  ought  to 
clout  you, 

And  yet  refrain  to  giggle  like  a  geek: 
If  you  can  wait  —  that  is,  can  wait  on  table, 

And  not  insult  the  hostess  or  the  guest; 
If  you  can  pass  the  cream ;  if  you  are  able 

To  wear  a  solemn  look  if  I  should  jest; 

If  you  can  cook  —  and  not  make  food  your 

master; 
If  you  can  read  —  and  not  make  Hearst 

your  aim : 
If  you  can  bake  a  crust  that  isn't  plaster; 

35 


By  and  Large 

If  you  can  use  the  gas,  nor  waste  the 

flame; 

If  you  can  take  a  message  telephonic, 
And  tell  me  who  she  was  and  what  she 

said; 

If  you  are  less  loquacious  than  laconic, 
And  tuck  the  covers  tightly  in  the  bed; 

If  you  can  wash  my  socks  without  their 

shrinking; 

If  you  can  iron  kerchiefs  without  starch; 
If  you  have  friends  who  do  not  care  for 

drinking; 

(Alas!  the   time  our  Gretchen   had   last 
^  March!) 

If  you  can  rise  at  seven  in  the  morning; 
If  you  will  now  and  then  turn  off  the 

light; 

If  you  can  smother  every  look  of  scorning 
My  "Seven  extra  places,  please,  to-night"; 

If  you  can  Tidy  Up,  nor  lose  my  papers; 
If  English  be  akin  to  what  you  talk; 
36 


If  you  can  cook  sans  onions,  sage,  or  capers; 

If  you  don't  clatter-clatter  when  you  walk; 
If  you  can  boil  an  egg  for  but  a  minute, 

Instead  of  —  as  is  usual  —  two  or  three, 
Yours  is  the  flat  and  everything  that's  in  it, 

And  —  which  is  more  —  you'll  get  a  job 
me! 


CULINARY  IMPERFECTIONS 

Full  many  a  glorious  cook  we've  had, 

From  Clara  to  the  current  queen; 
And  some  were  good  and  some  were  bad, 

And  some  were  only  just  between. 
Their  minor  faults  I  can  forgive; 

This  is  what  makes  me  cross  and  crusty: 
Why,  why  —  no  matter  where  I  live  — 

Why  is  the  spinach  always  dusty? 

We've  had  'em  that  could  broil  a  steak, 

We've  had  'em  that  could  stew  or  fry; 
Our  Olive,  once  a  week,  can  bake 

A  far  from  tasteless  lemon  pie. 
Our  Lena  —  oh,  her  splendid  soup! 

Our  Margaret  —  oh,  her  brilliant  scrapple! 
But  there  is  not  in  all  the  group 

A  single  one  can  core  an  apple. 
38 


Culinary  Imperfections 

Our  Gretchen  had  an  art  with  fish, 

Our  Anne  with  prunes  and  vermicelli, 
Our  Emma's  cakes  were  all  you'd  wish, 

Our  Jennie  was  a  bear  with  jelly; 
Yet,  out  of  all  the  gifted  crew, 

From  Jane  the  Curse  to  Grace  the  Blessing, 
There  was  not  one  but  she  put  too 

Much  vinegar  in  the  salad  dressing. 


IN  A  MANNER  OF  WRITING 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  38. 

EZRA  POUND'S  OR  AMY  LOWELL'S 

"Persicos  odi,  puer,  apparatus — " 

The  Persian  pompadours  I  hate,  O  boy! 
Head-wreaths,  with  linden  twined 
Displease  me. 

Seek  not  the  rose's  dwelling  place, 
But  myrtle,  if  I  had  my  choice,  for  me. 
For  you  as  well,  you  a  servitor. 
And  for  me,  as  under  this  lovely  vine 
I  become,  as  Jack  London  says, 
Jingled. 

JAMES   WHITCOMB    RILEY'S 

I  don't  keer  fer  Perzhunn  ties  an'  clo'es  'at's 

wore  by  kings; 
I  wunt  shoes  f  m  Terry  Hut,  an'  Injunopplis 

things. 

40 


In  a  Manner  of  Writing 

Don't  wunt  no  criss-anthey-ums  'at  grows  in 

any  store, 

Wunt  a  little  daisy  ist  like  Ou-er  Annie  wore. 
Noon-time  an'  June-time  beneath  a  nellum 

tree  — 
Here  in  Injeanny  is  the 

Place 

Per 

Me! 
ROBERT  w.  SERVICE'S 

I've   worked   like   the   deuce   and   sweated 

profuse,  till  my  brain  and  blood  oozed 

forth, 
And  hoi  polloi  grow  sick  with   joy  at  my 

rhymes  of  the  ribald  North; 
I  sing  my  song  and  they  call  it  strong  and 

virile  and  vivid  and  bright; 
If  Horace  were  here  —  don't  spill  the  beer!  — 

I'd  show  him  the  way  to  write! 

Believe  me,  kid,  whether  wop  or  yid,  I  hate 

a  gazabe  with  lugs; 
These  velvety  hats  they  drive  me  bats,  and 

I  think  I  am  going  bugs. 


By  and  Large 

The  plainest  caps  for  a  couple  of  yaps  and 

yeggs  like  you  and  me  — 
A  waiter  you,  and  me  with  a  stew  in  the 

shade  of  a  Dago  tree. 

I've  soused  like  sin  with  a  jigger  of  gin  where 
the  veins  of  the  Yukon  flow, 

I've  loved  and  lost  and  damned  the  cost  in 
the  cities  of  sleet  and  snow; 

I  was  never  afraid  to  call  a  spade  a  murder 
ous,  hellish  plow  — 

If  Horace  to-day  would  follow  my  way  — 
God!  but  I'd  show  him  how! 


THE  BALL  GAME 

I 
BY  OUR  OWN    JOHN    MASEFIELD 

With  other  men  and  wastrel-hounds 

I  walked  into  the  Polo  Grounds, 

And,  cursing  hard  at  the  expense, 

I  bought  a  seat  for  fifty  cents. 

By  cripes,  I  thought,  do  human  creatures 

Sit  out  here  in  the  bloody  bleachers? 

I  heard  them  argue  and  exclaim 
An  hour  or  so  before  the  game: 
"Brooklyn's  some  team." 
"Some  team  is  right." 
"You  said  a  face  full." 
"Aw,  good  night!" 

43 


By  and  Large 

"  They  got  no  chance.     See  M  atty  limp ! " 

"  That's  Tes-er-eau!" 

"Shut  up,  you  simp!" 

"The  Gi'nts  'a'  got  the  pennant  sewed/' 

"Go  wan,  these  early  games  is  throwed!" 

And  then  I  heard  the  umpire  say: 
"  Lays'gem'  thuh  battrees  fer  to-day  — 
Per  Brooklyn,  Roolback  an'  McCarty; 
Fer  Noo  York  Mathewson  an*  Meyers/' 
Long  was  the  cheering,  loud  and  hearty, 
From  these  encouragers  and  guyers. 

The  game:  Jack  Dal  ton  died  at  first; 
I  writhed  in  horror  and  I  cursed; 
My  thoughts  went  eddying  in  a  circle 
At  Cutshaw's  out,  Matty  to  Merkle; 
Then  Daubert  beat  an  infield  hit  — 
My  crimson-flowing  lips  1  bit  — 
But  Wheat,  Zack  Wheat,  lifted  to  Burns 
And  soured  all  my  hoping  yearns. 

Bob  Bescher  grounded  out  to  first; 

By  crimes,  the  bleachers  roared  and  cursed. 

"Safe!" 

44 


The  Ball  Game 

"He  was  not!" 
"He  was!" 
"Was  NOT!" 
"He  WAS!" 

"Yerliar!" 
"Can  that  rot!" 

George   Burns  went   out,  and   so  did   Flet 
cher. 

"Some  team,  them  boys!" 
"Some  team,  you  betcher!" 

So  till  the  fourth,  when  Cutshaw  singled: 
Oh,  strike  me  blind,  but  how  I  tingled! 
Then  Daubert  cracked  one  to  the  fence 
And  Cutshaw  scored,  and  Jake.     Immense! 
Wheat  tripled;  Carlyle  Smith  fouled  out, 
But  Stengel  scored  Wheat  with  a  clout. 
Egan  went  out,  McCarty,  too  — 
But  three  big  runs  across  —  hurroo! 

Quiet  until  the  middle  inning, 
When  trouble  started  in  beginning: 
Doyle  tripled,  iMerkle  fanned,  and  Snow 
Waited  for  four  and  walked  —  and  Oh! 

45 


By  and  Large 

Stock  singled,  Doyle  ran  fast  and  scored, 
And  then  a  brimstone  thing  —  Oh  Lordl- 
They  ran  down  Snodgrass  close  to  third, 
And  then  the  hellish  thing  occurred: 
McCarty  tried  for  Stock,  who'd  stole 
To  third.     He  threw.     There  was  a  hole. 
The  ball  went  out  to  deep  left  field. 
Three  runs  —  that  inning's  fruity  yield. 
And  in  the  sixth  they  got  another, 
And  Brooklyn  got  no  more  —  Oh,  mother! 

"Some  Matty,  eh?     He's  on  the  job." 

"He'd  oughta  lost,  the  lucky  slob!" 

"Marquard's  their  ace." 

"He's  through,  the  Rube." 

"He  ain't!" 

"He  is!" 

"Shut  up,  you  boob!" 

I  left  those  loud,  loquacious  louts, 
Their  tenuous  talk  of  ins  and  outs; 
Their  footless  talk  of  bears  and  terrors; 
Their  silly  talk  of  hits  and  errors. 
What  do  they  know,  I  asked,  of  Sport? 
46 


The  Ball  Game 

They  haven't  the  slightest  feeling  for't. 
They  talk  and  yell  and  swear  and  shout, 
But  they  don't  know  what  Sport's  about. 
What  is't?  I  said.     By  cripes,  I'll  show  'em! 
So  I  went  downtown  and  pulled  this  poem. 

II 

BY    OUR   OWN    RING   W.    LARDNER 

New  York  City,  N.  Y.,  May  26. 
FRIEND  AL:  Probly  it  come  like  a  supprise 
when  you  seen  I  dident  pitch  Tuesday's  game 
or  Monday's.  Well  Al  I  was  supprised  a 
little  myself  and  you  could  of  knocked  me 
down  with  a  croshayed  necktie  when  Gal 
says  he  is  going  to  pitch  Russell  this  after 
noon.  I  was  pretty  mad  and  I  says  Oh  are 
you  and  he  didn't  even  answer.  I  guess  he 
had  enough  in  St.  Louis  the  day  Evans  called 
a  balk  on  me  the  big  stiff.  Cal  says  You 
must  have  some  ball  games  in  the  bank  the 
way  you  toss  them  away  you  big  bone  you 
ingorant  busher.  He  says  you  aint  a  pitcher 
youre  a  nuisance.  He  says  Get  out  of  that 

47 


By  and  Large 

game.  He  says  if  you  had  a  little  more  sense 
youd  be  |  witted.  Them  managers  cant  bluff 
me.  I  come  back  at  him.  I  says  Is  that  so. 
You  know  me  Al. 

Well  Al  it  was  like  that  here  in  N.  Y.  Cal 
dident  say  a  word  and  he  pitched  Russell 
and  they  tyed  it  up  on  him  one  a  peace  in  the 
6th  in'g  and  then  Cal  took  Russell  out  and 
put  in  Benz  and  in  the  Qth  Bodie  got  a  lucky 
one  off  of  Caldwell  that  went  in  the  stands  a 
homer  so  we  won  but  it  wasnt  Benz's  fault. 
The  lucky  stiff. 

After  the  game  I  says  to  Irving  Vaughan 
one  of  the  Ch'go  reporters  I  think  Cal  done 
wrong  not  to  pitch  me  to-day  or  yesterday 
dont  you.  I  says  Your  honest  opinion  no 
bunk  now  I  says.  He  says  He  certainly 
should  of  pitched  you  Jack.  He  says  This 
way  he  only  won  two  out  of  the  two  games 
and  if  he  had  of  pitched  you  he  might  of  won 
three  or  seven  out  of  the  two.  Them  reporters 
give  me  a  pain  Al.  If  they  had  to  play  base 
ball  for  a  living  I  bet  they  would  starve  to 
deth. 

48 


The  Ball  Game 

Coming  out  of  the  grounds  I  seen  Chance 
the  Highlanders  m'n'g'r.  I  says  Good  even 
ing  Mr.  Chance  you  would  have  a  swell  team 
if  they  only  could  hit  that  old  ball.  He  says 
Yes  and  if  beefsteak  dident  cost  so  much  it 
might  be  cheaper.  I  guess  he  dident  under 
stand  what  he  said.  You  know  he  is  a  little 
deef  Al. 

We  are  stopping  at  Bretton  Hall  Al  and  it 
sure  is  some  hotel.  There  is  a  little  girl  at  the 
news-stand  who  is  pretty  fond  of  me  Al.  She 
is  some  looker  O.  K.  She  says  I  bet  youre  a 
ballplayer  all  right  and  I  says  yes  how  did  you 
know  and  she  says  on  account  of  the  way 
you  have  got  your  neck  shaved  in  the  back. 
Gee  Al  I  knew  it  looked  nice  but  I  dident 
think  anybody  would  notice  it.  These  N.  Y. 
dames  are  pretty  keen  Al. 

In  the  elevator  as  I  was  going  to  the  room 
Kid  Gleason  comes  in.  Well  he  says  I  hope 
you  will  like  it  in  Mobile.  I  says  I  aint  going 
to  Mobile  and  he  says  the  evening  papers 
is  full  of  it.  So  I  went  back  and  bought  a 
paper  and  there  wasent  nothing  about  it  at 

49 


By  and  Large 

all.    Al  he  was  kidding  me  and  they  charged 
me  2c  for  a  ic  paper  too. 
No  more  at  present  from 

Your  old  pal 

JACK. 

Ill 

BY   OUR  OWN   WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

I  met  a  little  Gotham  girl 

Upon  the  city  street; 
She  wore  a  merry  fish-hook  curl, 

And  all  her  ways  were  sweet. 

She  said  that  she  would  like  to  go 
The  baseball  game  to  see, 

But  rain  prevented  it,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me ! 

The  lily  on  its  waving  stem, 

The  roses  in  the  store  — 
A  summer  shower  'twas  to  them, 

And  it  was  nothing  more. 
50 


The  Ball  Game 

Oh,  ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour 
I've  seen  my  hopes  decay. 

How  often  hath  a  summer  shower 
Washed  all  my  life  away! 

IV 

N 

BY   OUR   OWN    WILLIAM    DE   MORGAN 

CHAPTER  I 

"*F  BELLAREATON'S  NAME.  HOW  IT  WASN'T 
REALLY  BELLAREATON.  BECAUSE  PRU 
DENCE  CROSBY  CALLED  HER  THAT,  NINE 
TEEN  YEARS  AGO.  JUNE  IN  GRAMERCY 
PARK.  JUNE  24,  1914,  TO  BE  ACCURATE. 

Of  course,  if  you  had  looked  at  Bellarea- 
ton's  visiting  cards,  which  were  engraved  in 
the  neatest  of  Caslon  caps  and  small  caps, 
and  not  in  the  Tiffany  text  which  was  affected 
by  the  best  and  assistant-best  and  second- 
vice-best  people  twenty  years  ago  —  eleu 
fugaces!  —  you  would  have  known  that  Bella- 
reaton's  name  was  not  Bellareaton  at  all. 
51 


By  and  Large 

You  would  have  known  that  it  was  ISABELLA 
EATON,  291  GRAMERCY  PARK.  You  would 
not  have  known,  though  the  reading  of  any 
of  the  writer's  previous  publications  might 
have  given  you  a  chart  or  diagram  you  could 
have  got  ahead  pretty  far  with,  so  you  might 
have  guessed,  that  when  Isabella  Eaton  was 
a  baby,  and,  indeed,  up  to  the  time  when  the 
brook  and  river,  as  Mr.  Longfellow  —  and 
his  verses  were  deemed  excellent  in  your 
mother's  day,  delightful  young  reader  —  said, 
meet  —  that  is,  in  preadolescent  days,  Miss 
Prudence  Crosby,  of  Augusta,  Maine,  was 
Isabella's  nurse  and  guardian  —  right-guar 
dian,  James  Eaton,  who  used  to  be  Old  Beef 
Eaton  of  Yale,  called  her.  Prudence's  pro- 
nunciatory  proclivities  —  the  alliteration  is 
accidental  and  the  story  would  gain  nothing 
by  stopping  to  change  it  now  —  included 
vanillaricecream,  Pennsylvaniaravenue  and 
she  sawr  a  nanimal  yestiddy.  And,  obvi 
ously,  I  sabellareaton .  1 1  was  I  sabella  at  first, 
then  Bella.  But  when  the  extremely  young 
Miss  Eaton  appeared  to  be  becoming  overde- 
52 


The  Ball  Game 

sirous  for  nuzzer  piece  o'  tandy,  which  she 
had  had  enough  of  already  and  what  was 
children  a-comin'  to,  Prudence,  terrifying  and 
austere,  would  cry  a  warning  "  Bellareaton, 
you've  had  more  than  enough  already. 
BeUareoJcm!" 

May  had  come  and  gone,  as  Mays  in 
Gramercy  Park  had  been  doing  for  the 
twenty-four  years  of  Bellareaton's  life.  It 
was  June.  June  twen  —  further  vagueness 
and  attempt  at  concealment  were  futile  — 
ty-fourth,  Nineteen  Fourteen.  It  was  one- 
fifteen  of  that  afternoon,  a  Wednesday.  The 
present  chronicler  might  increase  his  reputa 
tion  for  an  unusual  ability  to  remember  dates 
and  figures,  but  there  is  no  merit  accruing 
in  this  instance.  He  has  looked  it  up  in  a 
calendar  and  finds  that  June  24,  1914,  fell  on  a 
Wednesday.  And  calendars  never  are  wrong, 
save  artistically.  They  always  are  that. 


53 


By  and  Large 

CHAPTER  II 

HOW  YOUNG  PHYSICIANS  DO  NOT  MAKE  MUCH 
MONEY.  A  WAITING  PHYSICIAN.  IF  DOC 
TORS  ONLY  MIGHT  ADVERTISE!  WHY 
SHOULDN'T  THEY?  BECAUSE  THINGS  ARE 
WRONG.  BUT  HOW  CAN  IT  BE  HELPED? 

Unless  your  reverence  for  the  mating  of 
words  is  stronger  than  the  writer's,,  you 
would  not  have  called  John  Howard  Ripley, 
M.  D.,  as  his  bills,  which  so  few,  alas!  were 
sent  out  of,  and  solely  because  there  were  so 
few  to  send  out,  a  struggling  physician.  At 
any  rate,  his  struggling  was  not  visible.  He 
was,  you  might  say,  assuming  again  your 
willingness  to  divorce  word-pairs  whose  dia 
mond-wedding  anniversaries  have  been  cele 
brated,  a  waiting  physician.  One  who  is  by 
way  of  being  in  the  cloak-and-suit  line,  say, 
may  struggle;  a  subway  guard  may  struggle; 
a  janitor  of  an  apartment-house  may  struggle. 
To  see  the  last,  if  we  may  drop  the  story 
for  a  moment,  we  should  be  willing  to  walk 

54 


The  Ball  Game 

ten  miles  on  a  cold  night,  and  pay  a  good 
round  admittance-fee.  Provided,  of  course, 
that  his  struggling  were  in  vain. 

You  would  —  we  are  going  to  at  any 
rate  —  call  Dr.  Ripley  a  waiting  physician. 
An  excellent  physician  he  was,  and  they 
could  tell  you  at  Vienna,  in  the  university, 
of  the  amazing  knowledge  of  surgery  this 
young  American  had  attained.  But  when 
you  take  an  apartment  in  East  Fifty-sixth 
Street  —  or  anywhere,  almost  —  you  simply 
cannot  stand  in  front  of  the  building,  collect 
a  crowd,  and  say:  "Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
I  am  about  to  open  an  office  here.  Though 
1  am  unknown  to  all  of  you,  I  can  refer  you 
to  the  faculty  of  the  University  of  Vienna, 
where  I  took  exceptional  honors  in  surgery 
and  orthopraxy.  I  am  conscientious  and  hon 
orable,  my  skill  and  judgment  are  more  than 
ordinary,  and  I  deserve  your  trade/'  Yet 
this  would  have  been  utterly  true. 

A  theatre  may  —  nay,  dozens  do  —  vaunt 
that  it  has  the  Best  Show  in  Town,  and  a 
department  store  vow,  in  print,  that  nowhere 

55 


By  and  Large 

else  is  it  possible  to  obtain  such  colossal 
values  for  such  absurdly  low  prices.  Yet 
Dr.  Ripley's  speech,  could  he  but  have  made 
it,  would  have  been  more  truthful  and,  we 
believe,  more  modest.  Our  standards  are  in 
error.  And  jesting  Pilate's  query  remains 
unanswered. 

CHAPTER   III 

HOW  IT  WAS  STILL  JUNE  24,  1914.  OF  BENNIE 
MURPHY  AND  ANOTHER  BOY  WHOSE  NAME 
DOESN'T  MATTER.  THE  ACCIDENT.  THE 
RECOVERY.  HOW  THREE  HAPPY  PEOPLE 

WENT  TO  A   BASEBALL  GAME. 

Although  a  whole  chapter  has  intervened, 
no  time  whatever  has  elapsed  since  it  was 
one-fifteen  of  a  Wednesday  afternoon,  June 
24,  1914.  Into  each  novel  some  interpola 
tions  must  fall,  some  chapters  must  be  dark 
and  dreary.  The  writer  is  not  sure  whether 
that  is  original  with  him  or  is  a  quotation 
from  a  review  of  one  of  his  books.  At  any 
rate  he  does  not  read  the  reviews.  He  is  not 
56 


The  Ball  Game 

one  of  those  mendacious  authors  who  never 
look  at  reviews  and  don't  care  what  they  say 
anyhow  and  the  critics  never  read  the  books 
and  the  papers  have  a  grudge  against  them. 
No,  the  writer  reads  all  the  reviews.  He  is 
an  incorrigible  optimist.  He  hopes  some  day 
to  read  a  good  one. 

On  this  June  afternoon  on  which,  as  Miss 
Laura  Jean  Libbey  used  to  say,  our  story 
opens  on,  a  young  boy,  Bennie  Murphy 
ycleped  and  Moiphy  called,  aetitis,  \  3,  clean 
limbed,  as  Mr.  Chambers  would  say,  and 
dirty-handed  and  faced,  as  the  worship  of 
truth  compels  us  to,  was  playing  catch  with 
another  boy,  in  the  street.  The  other  boy 
does  not  enter  into  the  story,  save  objectively, 
and  his  name  and  attributes  do  not  matter. 
Giving  him  a  name  would  only  serve  to  con 
fuse  the  reader.  It  would  violate  the  princi 
ple  of  Economy  of  Attention.  Besides,  a 
careful  writer  may  spend  hours  thinking  up 
a  name  for  an  inconsequential  character,  when 
any  name  might  have  done.  So  a  story 
teller  will  hesitate,  sometimes,  as  to  whether 

57 


By  and  Large 

his  child  made  the  remark  on  Tuesday  or  on 
Wednesday,  when  you  are  perishing  to  have 
the  story  over  with,  so  that  you  can  get 
away,  or  tell  him  about  your  own  remarkable 
child's  epigram  of  last  Monday  —  or  was  it 
Friday  morning? 

Bennie  and  the  boy  were  playing  catch, 
then,  and  Bennie  was  just  running  to  the  side 
of  the  street  to  catch  the  ball,  which  the  boy 
whose  name  does  not  matter  had  thrown 
high  and  the  wind  had  deflected,  when  an 
automobile-truck  bore  down  upon  him.  The 
wheels  seemed  to  pass  over  his  left  foot  only. 
He  lay  in  the  street,  very  white,  very  lifeless- 
looking. 

The  first  man  who  rushed  up  was  Dr. 
Ripley.  In  a  thousand  cases,  a  doctor  would 
be  the  tenth  or  the  sixty-third  to  arrive.  But 
there  has  to  be  a  first,  and  this  time  it  was  the 
doctor.  The  story  cannot  play  with  facts, 
even  to  serve  a  purpose.  Also,  the  boy  whose 
name  doesn't  matter  ran  away.  His  name 
matters  less  than  ever  now. 

The  second  person  to  appear  was  a  po- 
58 


The  Ball  Game 

liceman,  who  took  the  truckman's  name  and 
the  truck's  number.  Clearly,  though,  it 
wasn't  his  fault,  'cause  the  kid  run  right 
plum  into  it  and  you  couldn't  stop  it  then, 
bein'  too  late,  an'  kids  oughta  keep  off  o' 
the  streets  an'  it  wasn't  his  fault.  The 
eleventh  person  to  arrive  was  Bellareaton,  the 
accident  having  occurred  almost  in  front  of 
her  house. 

"Bring  the  little  chap  in  here,"  she  said. 
She  was  pale,  but  excitedly  beautiful. 

"Give  us  a  hand,  here,"  this  from  the 
doctor. 

So  Bennie  was  carried  into  291  Gramercy 
Park  and  laid  on  a  bed  upstairs  and  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  saw  Dr.  Ripley  and  closed  them 
again,  and  Dr.  Ripley  took  his  shoe  and  stock 
ing  off  and  pressed  the  foot,  ever  so  gently, 
and  then  took  the  knee  and  pressed  that, 
and  rubbed  the  calf  and  kneaded  the  instep. 
And  Bellareaton  looked  on,  wonderingly. 

All  this,  you  must  know,  took  more  time 
than  it  takes  to  tell  it.  Most  things  do. 
And  then  Bennie  opened  his  eyes  and  kept 

59 


By  and  Large 

them  open.  He  did  not  say:  "Where  am 
I?"  He  said:  "Did  'at  stiff  git  away?" 
Meaning  the  driver. 

"He  will  be  punished  for  his  carelessness," 
replied  Miss  Eaton,  academically. 

"Big  stiff!"  said  Bennie,  mercilessly. 

"Forget  him,"  said  Bellareaton.  "You're 
not  hurt  a  bit.  You  can  go  home  in  a  few 
minutes.  Is  there  anything  you'd  like? 
You  may  have  anything  you  like  this  after 
noon,  because  you  were  nearly  killed,  but 
weren't.  Ice  cream  or " 

"Anything  a  'tall?"  Bennie  asked. 

"Anything." 

"Gimme  a  ticket  to  the  ballgame.  Th' 
Yanks  is  back  an'  I  wanna  see  them  poor 
boobs  play." 

Dr.  Ripley  looked  at  Bellareaton.  He 
took  her  hand  and  held  it,  pressingly. 

"We'll  take  him  to  the  game,"  he  said. 


BASEBALDERDASH 

''Think  that  the  Gi'nts  '11  repeat?" 
"Class  is  the  word,  bo;  you  said  it." 

"Well,  they  got  Pittsburgh  to  beat  - 
"Wagner's  a  wolf  —  give  him  credit/ 

^ Class  is  the  word,  bo;  you  said  it." 
"Herzog's  some  manager,  too." 

"Wagner's  a  wolf  —  give  him  credit." 
"Who  said  that  guy  was  all  through? 

"Herzog's  some  manager,  too." 
"  Evers  '11  make  'em  all  hurry." 

"Who  said  that  guy  was  all  through?" 
"Brooklyn  might  slip  'em  a  worry." 

"Evers  '11  make  'em  all  hurry." 
"Yes,  but  St.  Louis  is  there." 

"Brooklyn  might  slip  'em  a  worry." 
"Say,  Philadelphia's  a  bear!" 
61 


By  2nd  Large 

"Yes,  but  St.  Louis  is  there." 

"Some  little  team  —  that  goes  double/' 
"Say,  Philadelphia's  a  bear!" 

"Them  guys  are  apt  to  make  trouble." 

"Some  little  team  —  that  goes  double/' 
"Well,  they  got  Pittsburgh  to  beat/' 

"Them  guys  are  apt  to  make  trouble/' 
"Think  that  the  Gi'nts'll  repeat?" 


62 


TO  JULIA  LEGION 

When  in  whatever  you  wear  you  go, 

Girl  of  the  present  day, 
Often  I  wonder  how  dare  you  go 

Clad  in  that  lucent  way. 

You  are  the  theme  of  my  song  to-day, 

You,  O  transparent  dame. 
Is  it  the  sun  that's  so  strong  this  year, 

Or  —  ain't  you  got  no  shame? 


A  WARNING  TO  MYRTILLA 

Long  and  true  my  love  for  you,  Myrtilla ; 

Fervent  as  the  solar  rays. 
Often,  you  recall,  I  used  to  spill  a 

Lot  of  ink  to  print  your  praise. 

Blind  was  I  to  all  your  little  follies, 
Deaf  to  all  your  faults  of  speech  — 

Fairest  of  the  universe's  dollies, 
Loveliest  of  human  creatch ! 

Melted  by  a  mastering  compassion, 
Faults  of  yours  I  can  forgive. 

I  have  seen  you  follow  every  fashion 
Feminine,  and  let  you  live! 

BUT  —  and  get  me  right,  O  my  Myrtilla ; 

Hearken  to  my  warning,  girl: 
Listen:    I  could  absolutely  kill  a 

Fluff  who  wears  a  fish-hook  curl. 


PAVLOWA 

Pavlowa,  thou  fairest  of  dancers, 
Whose  name  is  a  blessing  to  speak, 

Sooth,  I  were  the  worst  of  romancers, 
The  dullest  of  bards,  and  unique, 

Did  I,  in  a  measure  melodic, 
Not  sing  of  thy  glorious  grace, 

And  wax  absolutely  rhapsodic 
Extolling  thy  face. 

Pavlowa!  than  Lilian  more  airy! 

Pavlowa!    Terpsichore's  self ! 
Thou  sprite,  hamadryad,  and  fairy, 

Thou  pixie,  thou  sylph,  and  thou  elf! 
I  think  of  thee  strong  as  the  panther 

And  light  as  the  will-o'-the-wisp; 
I  think  thou'rt  believe  me  thome  danther- 
Please  pardon  my  lisp. 
65 


By  and  Large 

Perhaps,  as  I'm  writing,  Pavlowa, 
Thoudst  not  care  to  give  me  a  glance. 

How  narrow  is  Art !    I'd  not  throw  a 
Good  evening  to  look  at  thee  dance. 

To  each  his  conception  of  blisses  — 
My  notion  is  staying  at  home. 

The  tickets  I  slipped  to  the  Mrs. 

And  penned  thee  this  pome. 


66 


TO  MYRTILLA 

Myrtilla  mine,  none  is  so  fair  as  thou; 

None  is  more  fain  than  I  to  give  thee  credit 
For  hair  and  lips  and  eyes  and  cheek  and 

brow  — 

Some  nectarine  is  accurate    ...     I  said 
it. 

For  I  have  been  an  eager,  willing  swain, 
Despite  thine  Economic  Independence; 

Often  my  love  for  thee  hath  stood  a  strain, 
And  stood  it  for  thy  roseate  resplendence. 

What  time  thou  wearest  these  horrific  styles, 
The  comic  lid,  the  blouse  named  for  the 

Bulgar, 

Mine  utter  love  dispelled  my  scornful  smiles, 
For  thou  wert  funny  without  being  vulgar. 
67 


By  and  Large 

I    thought   thee   safe;     I    deemed   my   love 

secure; 
But    now    I    groan  —  I    seek    bichloride 

beakers, 

For  there  be  things  my  love  cannot  endure  — 
Thou  look'st  a  fright,  Myrt,  in  thy  tennis 
sneakers. 


YET  THE  SEMPITERNAL  FOLLY  IS  HERS 

"When  lovely  woman  stoops "  I'll  quit  it; 

Perhaps  she  did  in  Goldsmith's  day; 
But  now  she  can't  —  as  well  admit  it. 
Her  dresses  are  not  built  that  way. 


66 


TO  THE  PRESENT  GIBSON  GIRL 

Lady  of  the  neoGibson  school, 
In  the  realm  of  Art  I  am  lignitic; 

Though  I'm  there  at  dice  and  kelly-pool, 
i  concede  that  I  am  not  a  critic. 

Yet,  O  Lady,  when  I  see  McClure's, 
And  observe  your  head  upon  the  cover, 

Is  it  —  O,  I  wonder  —  is  it  yours? 
How  I  blush  to  think  I ' ve  been  your  lover ! 

Yes,  your  lover  .  .  .  In  mine  early  youth, 
Ere  I  came  to  be  a  minus  poet, 

Then  you  led  the  league  and  that's  the  truth, 
Gibson  girl  of  old,  and  now  you  know  it. 

BUT  —  and  this  the  reason  of  my  pome  — 
This  the  object  of  these  here  addresses: 

Why  not  get  yourself  a  brush  and  comb? 
I  refuse  to  fall  for  them  there  tresses. 


BALLADE   OF   GIRLS  WHO   ATTEND   THE 

PRINCETON- YALE  AND  YALE-HARVARD 

FOOTBALL  GAMES 

Written  after  years  of  close  observation  at  the  games  and  the 
bleak  intervals  between  them. 

This  is  the  way  it  appears  to  me: 
Every  season,  as  I  recall; 
Every  season  I  seem  to  see 
Fairest  of  maidens,  one  and  all; 
Watching  the  collegers  play  football; 
And  the  vox  humana  in  me  exclaims, 
"Where  do  you  tarry  from  fall  to  fall? 
Where  do  you  hide  between  the  games?" 

Whence  is  beauty  of  such  degree, 
And  number  so  many  as  to  appal? 
I  seek  in  vain  for  a  simile, 
Fairest  of  maidens,  one  and  all. 
70 


Ballade  of  Girls 

Where  do  you  vanish?    Behind  what  wall? 
Where   are   your   houses   and   whaur  your 

hames? 

Slaves  are  you  to  some  witch's  thrall? 
Where  do  you  hide  between  the  games? 

I  gaze  and  gaze  at  the  bourgeoisie 
I  find  at  the  play  or  the  concert-hall. 
But  the  total  never  sums  up  to  be 
Fairest  of  maidens,  one  and  all. 
I  may  see  one  from  an  opera  stall, 
Or  a  star  from  one  of  the  melodrames; 
But  the  annual  average  is  sadly  small  — 
Where  do  you  hide  between  the  games? 

L'ENVOI 

Princesses,  pardon  my  simple  scrawl, 

Fairest  of  maidens,  one  and  all; 

But  who  —  who  are  you  and  what  are  your 

names? 
Where  do  you  hide  between  the  games? 


TO  THE  REDFERN  CORSET  LADY 

Lady,  I  was  never  one  to  flatter, 
Never  one  to  pull  the  insincere; 

Ever  am  I  chary  with  my  chatter; 
Few  the  frails  for  whom  I  fill  an  ear. 

Diffidence  and  shyness  are  my  habit; 

Frightened  I  as  any  forest  fawn ; 
Timid  I  as  any  startled  rabbit; 

Shrinking  as  Orion  at  the  dawn. 

Yet  I  feel  no  trace  of  any  shyness, 
Hurling  elegiacs  at  your  head, 

Speaking  of  your  obvious  divineness  — 
Not  a  fear,  anxiety,  or  dread. 

Cast  the  gyve  and  break  the  galling  fetter ! 

Far  away  discretion's  chain  I  throw, 
Lady,  for  I  feel  I  know  you  better 

Than  most  any  other  girl  I  know. 


THE  TIRED  BUSINESS  MAN'S  SONG 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  night, 

As  it  did  in  the  bygone  evenings 
When  Longfellow  used  to  write. 

I  lamp  the  lights  of  the  city, 
The  scintillant  signs  of  the  town, 

And  a  feeling  of  gladness  comes  o'er  me 
That  simply  will  not  down. 

A  feeling  of  gladness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  joy, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  Tanguay  resembles  Foy. 

Come,  sing  to  me  some  lyric, 

Some  sinful  and  stupid  lay; 
The  sort  that  the  Western  buyers 

Applaud  at  a  cabaret. 


By  and  Large 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  highbrow  bunch, 
Who  make  the  music-lovers 

Assert  that  they  had  the  punch. 

For,  like  strains  of  Debussy  music, 

They  make  me  ready  to  drop 
Into  deep  and  endless  slumber, 

And  to-night  I  long  for  slop. 

Play  from  some  ragtime  lyrist, 

Whose  songs  gush'd  Heav'n  knows  whence, 
As  wilful  and  naughty  children 

Will  write  with  chalk  on  a  fence; 

Who,  down  in  Tin-Pan  Alley, 

Or  elsewhere  I  may  not  hint, 
"Composed"  the  commonplace  "music," 

Or  the  words  unfit  for  print. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  riot 

The  sluggish  pulse  of  care, 
From  the  Anaconda  Wriggle 

To  the  sin-sin  Cinnamon  Bear. 

74 


The  Tired  Business  Mans  Song 

Then  play  from  that  aggregation 
The  rag  with  the  utmost  pep, 

And  lend  to  the  tune  of  the  lyrist 
The  grace  of  the  newest  step. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  ragtime, 
And  the  songs  of  an  elder  day 

Shall  repose  in  the  camphored  storehouse 
With  "Forsaken"  and  "Nelly  Gray/' 


75 


THE  CABARET  BARDS 
I 

KATHLEEN    MAVOURNEEN 

Don't  you  hear  it?    Toot!    Toot! 
Getting  near  it?    Toot!    Toot! 
Wake  up,  Kate.     Don't  sleep  so  late. 
We've  got  a  date  at  half-past  eight; 
Don't    you    hear   that    hunter's    horn? 

Tootle-oo ! 
Don't  be  so  quiet, 
Let's  have  a  riot ! 
You're  a  peach,  you're  a  mango, 
Let's  do  the  tango 
Down  in  the  Londonderry  bogs. 

CHORUS 

Oh,  Kathleen,  you're  a  queen, 

You're  my  Hibernian  peacherine, 

You're  a  bear, 

You're  there, 

I  don't  care,  I  don't  care,  I  don't  care! 

You're  a  gem, 

K.  M. 

Kathleen  Mavournee-ee-een! 
76 


The  Cabaret  Bards 
11         x 

ANNIE    LAURIE 

Listen  to  my  story,  kid, 

About  Annie  Laurie,  kid, 

Down  on  the  Maxwelton  River. 

She's  no  flivver; 

Her  neck's  like  the  swan,  are  you  on?  are 

you  on? 

Her  face  is  fair,  she's  a  bear!  she's  a  bear! 
She's  a  wolf,  she's  an  otter, 
She's  a  swell  turkey-trotter; 
She's  some  dancer,  that's  the  answer. 
Oh,  oh!  when  I  squeeze  her  I  please  her, 

O  Caesar! 
Oh,  that  Annie  Laurie  Ra-ha-ha-ag! 

CHORUS 

Maxwelton  hugs  are  bunny; 

Ain't  it  funny?  Ain't  it  funny? 

Nab  me,  grab  me,  taxicab  me; 

Do  that  glorious, 

Gyratorious, 

Annie  Laurie-ous  Rag! 

77 


By  and  Large 
III 

MAID   OF    ATHENS 

Maid  of  Athens,  'fore  I  go  away 
To  the  U.  S.  A., 
Hear  what  I  say. 
Don't  be  gloomy,  kid, 
Listen  to  me,  kid! 

0  your  beautiful  eyes  and  hair! 

1  swear  you're  a  bear. 

Will  you  miss  me?    Come  and  kiss  me, 
You  Athenian,  Hell-hellenian  maid! 

CHORUS 

0  you  swell  Athenian  skirt! 
You're  some  dessert! 

When  we  do  that  turkey-trot  in  Greece, 

1  can  hear  'em  holler  out  "Police!'* 
Oh!    ...    Oh!    .     .     .    Oh!   .    .    . 

Oh!    ... 
Zoe  mou  sas  agapo! 
Maid  of  Athens,  hug  me  tight, 
Before  you  say  "Good  Night!" 
78 


The  Cabaret  Bards 
IV 

ROCK-A-BY,    BABY 

Rag-a-by,  baby,  the  cradle  is  green, 

Dad    is   some   trotter   and    mother's   some 

queen ; 
And    Betty's    some    lady  —  some    lady    is 

right  — 
And  Johnny's  a  dancer  and  one-steps  all 

night. 

Rag-a-by,  baby,  on  the  tree-top, 
When  the  crowd  goes,  the  ragging  will  stop; 
When  the  crowd  comes  and  fills  up  the  hall 
Down  go  the  dance,  the  dancers  and  all. 

V 

BREAK!  BREAK!  BREAK! 

Break!    Break!    Break! 

You're  a  crocodile,  kid;  you're  a  snake, 

Oh,  oh,  oh,  I  wish  that  I  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  make  my  heart  go  flutter, 

Hear  the  fisherman's  kid  and  the  sailor  lad  — 

1  guess  they're  bad  — 

79 


By  and  Large 

Singing  that  ragtime  in  the  boat  — 

It  gets  my  goat. 

But  I  don't  feel  —  What  don't  you  feel?  — 

That  vanished  hand  of  my  sweet  Camille, 

And  her  voice  I  cannot  never  hear  no  more; 

That  gets  me  sore, 

And  so  I  roar: 

CHORUS 

Break!   Break!   Break! 
At  the  foot  of  the  crags, 
As  we  dance  those  rags 
By  the  sea  —  you  and  me — 
As  we  do  that  craggy,  jaggy,  waggy, 
break. 


THE  "  PUNCH  " 

Time  was  when  a  novel  was  "  gripping "; 

Time  was  when  a  story  was  "strong"; 
Time  was  when  a  title  was  "pregnant"  or 
"vital"; 

And  "sweet"  or  "appealing"  a  song. 
Time  was  when  a  drama  was  "ripping"; 

But  now,  be  it  Learning  or  Lunch, 
For  stuff  to  get  by  in  the  town  of  N.  Y. 

It's  got  to  be  "stuff  with  a  punch." 

I'm  tired  of  the  tale  that's  "tremendous"; 

I'm  weary  of  "pulsing  with  life"; 
"Significant"  also's  beginning  to  pall  so 

I  think  it  is  due  for  the  knife. 
I've  stood  for  a  run  on  "stupendous"; 

"Convincing"  and  all  of  that  bunch; 
But  worse,  to  my  mind,  than  the  others  COITH 
bined, 

Is  the  dread  and  ubiquitous  "punch." 


81 


THE  NEO-NEOISM 

My  cup  is  empty  to-night, 

Cold  and  dry  are  its  sides, 

Chilled  by  the  wind  from  the  open  window, 

Empty  and  void,  it  sparkles  white  in  the  moonlight. 

The  room  is  filled  with  the  strange  scent 

Of  wistaria  blossoms. 

They  sway  in  the  moon's  radiance 

And  tap  against  the  wall. 

But  the  cup  of  my  heart  is  still, 

And  cold,  and  empty. 

—  From  "Absence,"  by  Amy  Lowell 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

I  have  been  paying  attention 

To  the  various  movements  in  Art, 

In  Fiction  and  Poetry,  particularly. 

Most  of  them  I  am  unable  to  imitate,  even 

if  I  cared  to  do  so. 
Some  of  them  are  sincere; 
Most  of  them  are  phony. 
82 


The  Neo-Neoism 

Frank  discussion  of  human  relations 

Is  a  fine  thing;  I  am  for  it. 

But  Art  for  Obstetrics'  sake,  that,  Mawruss, 

Is  something  else  again, 

As  to  the  New  Poetry,  should  you  ask  me, 

I  should  answer,  No. 

Briefly,  and  in  a  word,  NO! 

Henley  could  do  it,  but  Witter  Bynner  and 

Amy  Lowell  can't. 
Neither  can  I. 


TO  THE  NEO-PSEUDOISTS 

Poets  and  painters  and  sculptors, 
Ye  of  the  screeching  schools, 

Scorners  of  Art's  conventions 
Haters  of  bonds  and  rules. 

Mockers  of  line  and  rhythm, 
Leathers  of  color  and  rhyme, 

What  of  your  new  creations? 
What  of  the  Test  of  Time? 

Fetters  no  longer  bind  you, 
Ye  of  the  New  To-day, 

But  —  if  a  dolt  may  ask  it  — 
What  have  ye  got  to  say? 

Here  is  another  question, 
Less  of  the  head  than  heart: 

Is  the  new  stuff  wonderful  merely 
Because  it  is  rotten  art? 


ONE  NEVER  KNOWS 

A  daily  bard  once  labored  hard  and  earn 
estly  and  long; 

And  all  his  art  and  soul  and  heart  he  breathed 
into  his  song; 

Each  word  and  line  he  polished  fine,  and 
said:  "I  guess  I'll  show  'em 

That  at  my  height  I  sure  can  write  consider 
able  poem. 

Big  odds  I'll  give  this  stuff  will  live,  and 
never  be  forgotten." 

But  few  were  they  who  read  the  lay,  and 
those  who  did  said,  "Rotten!" 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  bard.     "  Instead  of  doing 

stuff  sublime, 
I  shall  not  try  to  versify,  nor  build  the  Lofty 

Rhyme; 
Nor  taste  nor  care  shall  mark  my  ware,  I'll 

do  it  willy-nilly; 


By  and  Large 

Nor  worry  if  the  verse  be  piffle,  meaningless 

and  silly." 
The  stuff  came  out.     Did  people  shout  and 

with  applauding  greet  it? 
No,  they  did  not.     They  called  it  rotten  also. 

Can  you  beat  it? 


86 


THE  EXILES 

After  hearing  many  state  and  county  society  banquet  speeches  in 
New  York. 

The  exiles  from  Anyold  County 

Have  come  to  the  banqueting  board 

To  listen  to  jokes  on  the  Anyold  folks, 
And  haply  to  Simeon  Ford. 

"Oh,  wondrous  is  Anyold  County!" 
"Dear  Harry  and  Jimmie  and  Jack/' 

"  The  perfectest  place  on  the  globular  face — " 
But  somehow  they  never  go  back. 

The  Georgians,  the  Texans,  the  Hoosiers 

Convene  for  their  annual  talk; 
One  night  in  the  year  they  assemble  to  cheer 
Their  state,  while  they  knock  on  New 

Yawk. 

O  Anyold  State  is  "God's  Country"; 
"Dear  Old  lowana!"     "Alack! 
We  wish  we  were  there  where  the  people 

are  square " 

But  somehow  they  never  go  back. 
87 


By  and  Large 

"O  dearest  Old   Kalamafornia!" 

"My  dear  Pennsylourian  home!" 
"We  few  in  the  East  have  assembled  to 

feast " 

Then  some  one  gets  up  with  a  pome. 
O  exiles  in  Marv'lous  Manhattan, 
I  brand  ye  a  hypocrite  pack  — 
The  burg  of  my  birth  is  the  finest  on  earth  — 
But  somehow  I've  never  been  back. 


A  PHILIPPIC* 

Down  with  that  phrase  soporific,  bromidic  — 

" Whatever  that  is"  — 
Relic  of  days  paleozoic,  druidic  — 

"Whatever  that  is."— 
Does  one  remark,  in  a  tone  unspectacular, 
"  I  think  the  comet  diffusely  opacular," 
Some  one  will  cry  in  the  vulgar  vernacular: 

"Whatever  that  is!" 

Curses  on  him  who  invented  the  slogan 

"Whatever  that  is!" 
Jump  on  his  neck  with  an  ensiform  brogan  — 

Whatever  that  is  — 

Phrase  without  meaning,  bourgeois  and  pes 
tiferous, 

Phrase  that  is  wearying,  dull  and  somniferous, 
Here  is  anathema  umbraculiferous  — 

Whatever  that  is. 

*Whateverthatis. 


NO  OFFENCE,  SIR 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Tribune.    Sir: 
Years  I  worked  on  an  evening  paper, 

Daily  banging  my  dulcimer, 
Singing  the  role  of  the  journal's  japer. 

Every  morning  or  ever  nine 

Clanged  its  knell  from  the  St.  Paul  steeple, 
I  was  fanning  the  Spark  Divine 

To  coax  into  flame  for  the  eager*  people. 

And,  at  night,  when  I  might  have  been 
Reading  my  Meredith,  James  or  Hardy, 

I  would  be  worrying,  wakeful,  in 
Fear  of  arising  the  morrow  tardy. 

Years  and  years  —  and  as  I  look  back 
Over  the  nights  when  I  starved  for  slumber, 

When,  as  a  chronic  insomniac, 
Cattle  I  counted  —  an  endless  number  — 
90 


No  Offence,  Sir 

Back  on  days  when  I  rose  at  six, 
Feeling  awearied,  weak,  and  sloppy, 

Anxious  until  I  had  several  sticks 
Written  of  readable,*  zippy*  copy. 

Then  when  I  think  of  those  dreadful  days, 
Mornings  hurried  and  wild  and  stormy, 

Through  me  courses  a  song  of  praise, 
Gratitude  whelms  me  and  surges  o'er  me. 

Take  my  thankfulness,  warm  and  deep, 
Sir,  at  your  shrine  I  burn  this  taper: 

I  have  found  it  a  cinch  to  sleep 
Since  I've  come  to  your  well-known  paper. 

*Or  any  other  adjective  that  scans. 


WHY  THE  SOCIALIST  PARTY  IS  GROWING 

DEDICATED  TO  THE    SCHOOL  OF   JOURNALISM 

"A  story/'  the  reporter  said,  "about  com 
mercial  crime. 
A  merchant's  been  convicted  of  selling 

phony  stuff. 
The  sentence  is  a  thousand  meg  and  seven 

years  of  time  — " 

"A  hundred  words/''  the  city  Ed.  replied, 
"will  be  enough." 

"A  story/'  the  reporter  said,  "about  a  crim 
son  dame 
Just  landed  from  the  steamer,  wearing 

slippers  that  are  red. 

She  used  to  be  the  Dearest  Friend  of  Em 
peror  Wotsisname — " 
"Three  columns  and  a  layout!"  cried  the 
eager  city  Ed. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TWO  LAME  MEN 

As  I  was  strolling  a-down  the  street, 

In  an  utterly  random  way, 
A  couple  of  men  I  chanced  to  meet 

And  a  piteous  pair  were  they. 

Their  limbs  were  bent,  their  heads  awry, 

They  seemed  two  sorry  freaks; 
And  I  spake  them  thus,  oh,  thus  spake  I, 

In  the  manner  of  Percy's  Reliques: 

O  have  ye  been  to  the  footballe-field 

And  maimed  been  and  bent? 
Or  gat  ye  hurts  that  never  healed 

In  a  railway's  accident? 

O  have  ye  been  to  the  bloudy  wars? 

O  have  ye  been  through  a  wreck? 
O  whence  are  come  these  wounds  and  scars, 

And  the  crick  of  the  back  and  neck? 

93 


By  and  Large 

We  haena  been  to  the  footballe-field 

Nor  maimed  been  nor  bent. 
Nor  gat  we  hurts  that  never  healed 

In  a  railway's  accident. 

We  haena  been  to  the  bloudy  wars. 

We  haena  been  in  a  wreck, 
And  yet  we  have  these  wounds  and  scars, 

And  the  crick  of  the  back  and  neck. 

O  tell  me,  tell  me,  my  sad-eyed  men, 

Gif  ye  haena  been  to  wars, 
Whence  ever  these  bruises  came,  and  when 

Acquired  ye  those  dredesome  scars? 

Then  up  and  spake  me  those  gentil  sirs: 

"By  goddiswoundes,  we  are 
The  sixth  and  seventh  passengers 

Of  a  seven-passenger  car/' 


94 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SORROWFULL 
BRIDE 

I  came  upon  a  fayre  ladye, 
Her  face  was  drawne  and  grey; 
Now  saints  thee  save,  thou  fayre  ladye, 
What  makst  thee  look  that  way? 

Hast  thou  had  heavy  loss  at  bridge? 

Has  ruined  thy  sonsie  gowne? 
Are  all  thy  friends  in  the  cool  countrie 

Whiles  that  thou  stickst  in  towne? 

Do  blaw  the  winds  too  hot,  too  hot? 
Do  blaw  the  winds  too  fresh? 

0  tell  me  why  thou  hast  this  case 
Of  psycholog.  depresh? 

1  haena  lost  a  penny  at  bridge, 

I  haena  torn  my  gowne, 
I  lust  not  after  the  cool  countrie, 
Nor  sorrow  to  stick  in  towne. 

95 


By  and  Large 

The  winds  blaw  never  too  hot,  too  hot, 
The  winds  blaw  never  too  fresh; 

And  yet  I  have  a  dreadsome  case 
Of  psycholog.  depresh. 

I  haena  now  yweddid  been 

A  year  but  hardly  twa; 
But  my  true  love  I  never  do  see 

From  Spring  till  late  in  Fa'. 

In  early  March  he  leaveth  my  side 
Eche  day  when  cometh  the  sonne, 

And  never  I  see  him  or  hear  him  else 
Till  day  hath  long  been  done. 

In  March,  in  April,  and  in  May, 

In  June  and  in  July, 
In  August  and  in  September  — 

Ay,  till  the  snaw  doth  fly. 

His  bonnie  face  I  never  see, 

He  hath  no  word  to  say, 
He  cometh  home  so  weary  at  night 

He  straightway  hitteth  the  hay. 
96 


The  Ballad  of  tie  Sorrowfull  Bride 

My  hosband  is  no  labouring  man 
Must  delve  for  daily  bread, 

And  yet  I  scarce  have  spoken  him 
Since  the  day  when  we  were  wed. 

But  this  is  why  my  cheek  is  pale, 
'  And  red  and  dull  my  lamp:      •  >  ;  ] 
My  true  love  is  a  sportsman  brave  — 
golfing' 
tennis 

An  amateur  •  fishing  •  champ, 
polo 
sailing . 


97 


GUI  CULPA? 

The  Triangle  Fire,  March  25,  1911 

A  train  collision  killed  a  few;  "investigation" 

came; 
The  "probe"  was  sharp,  the  "probe"  was 

deep,  but  "no  one"  was  to  blame. 
The  overworked  despatcher,  true,  had  fallen 

fast  asleep, 
But  that  was  not  the  railroad's  fault  —  and 

the  "probe"  was  sharp  and  deep. 

A  hundred  souls,  a  thousand  souls  were  sac 
rificed  to  flame; 

The  "probe"  was  long,  the  "probe"  was 
deep,  but  where  to  "fix  the  blame"? 

"Twas  panic  killed  the  audience;   the  loss 
of  life  was  due 

To  trepidation  of  the  mob,"  said  Twelve 
Good  Men  and  True. 
98 


Cui  Culpa? 

Pray  God  we  grow  not  bitter,  but  it  makes 

the  vision  red  — 
This  hellish  truth  of  wiped-out  youth,  this 

tale  of  needless  dead! 
No   single  name  can   bear  the   blame,   go 

"probe"  ye  ne'er  so  deep, 
For  the  cost  of  living  rises,  but  the  cost  of  life 

is  cheap. 


MONODY  ON  THE  ASTOR  HOUSE 

Lament,  O  Muse,  and  heave  a  suspiration; 

Make  me  an  epicedium,  a  threne, 
An  ode  to  fit  my  humid  lachrimation, 

A  dirge  ultramarine! 

For  heavy  I,  and  supercharged  with  woe, 
On  reading  that  the  Astor  House  must  go. 

Thou  noble  inn  where  oft  I  [Cries  of  "Louder"] 

Repaired  to  find  a  frugal  bit  of  lunch; 
Where  grew  the  city's  only  perfect  chowder 

And  hot  Jamaica  punch  — 
So  deep  my  woe  that  thou  art  to  be  razed 
I  question  it  can  fittingly  be  phrased. 

Farewell,  farewell !    If  Byron  I  may  borrow  — 

I  read  of  thee  in  many  an  Alger  tome, 
Unthinking  that,   in   age  and  bowed  with 
sorrow, 

I'd  spill  to  thee  a  pome; 
Unknowing  that  some  day  I  should  deplore 
The  announcement  that  thou  wert  to  be  no 
more. 

100 


Monody  on  the  Astor  House 

Yet  though  my  trend  be  super-sentimental, 

Thine  end  I  truly  do  not  mind  a  bit; 
My  grief  for  that  is  wholly  incidental, 

This  is  my  woe,  to  wit : 
The  riveting  and  blasting  I  must  hear  — 
Shades  of  the  Woolworth  tower!  —  another 
-year! 


101 


BERMUDA 

I  point  my  new-filled  pen  at  thee 
From  an  embarrassment  of  topics, 

Fair  gem  of  the  cerulean  sea, 
Glistening  down  in  the  semi-tropics. 

Land  where  duress  is  but  a  dream, 

Land  of  evaporated  cream. 

Isle  of  the  cedar  and  the  palm, 
Island  of  sempiternal  summer, 

Thou  wert  a  benison  and  balm 
To  me,  thy  present  paean-strummer. 

Land  of  the  lily  and  the  rose 

And  misses'-size  Lotharios. 

Bermuda!  fairy  British  isle 
Whose  lexicon  is  void  of  "hurry/' 

Whose  murmuring  says  "  Rest-a-while," 
Whose  motto  comes  to  "I  should  worry !" 

Land  of  the  oleander  path, 

And  eight  per  day  (without  a  bath). 

102 


Bermuda 

Not  that  I  grudge  my  frittered  wealth; 

Not  mine  to  seek  Bermuda's  wherefore; 
I  landed  there  in  quest  of  health 

And  found  it.    I  am  grateful.    Therefore 
It  is  the  smallest  of  my  cares 
The  natives  are  not  there  for  theirs. 

<v 

Shall  it  be  so  in  Paradise? 

Shall  I  be  fluttering  my  pinions 
And  yearn  to  be  among  the  guys 

Inhabiting  the  sub-dominions? 
*        *        * 

I  only  know  that  I  came  home 
And  pounded  out  this  little  pome. 


103 


MATES  FOR  THE  MATELESS 

[These  words  are  rhymeless:  Almost,  person,  modest,  corner,  peril, 
coffin,  chilblain,  dainty,  always,  cleanly,  outside,  nervous,  absence, 
hardly,  pageant,  language. —  London  Chronicle.] 

Poets,  as  we  love  to  call  most 

Every  bard  that  writes  a  verse  on 

Any  subject,  it  is  almost 
Time  to  call  this  London  person. 


Though  I'm  reticent  and  modest, 
As  is  every  word-adorner, 

This  remark,  of  all  the  oddest, 
Draws  me  boldly  from  my  corner. 

"Rhymeless."     Say  it  at  your  peril, 

Ere  I  order  up  a  coffin. 
Is  there  no  such  stone  as  "beryl"? 

Wide  indeed  the  sleeve  I  scoff  in. 
104 


Mates  for  tie  Matekss 

Though  the  mention  of  a  chilblain 

Isn't  beautiful  or  dainty, 
"There's  a  rhyme,"  says  Mr.  Will  Elaine, 

He's  authority,  now.     Ain't  he? 

Be  you  smooth  or  wear  you  Galways, 

Or  from  Atchison  or  Henley, 
Rhymes  are  very  easy,  always, 

And  the  sport  is  —  oh,  so  cleanly! 

Words  are  but  a  showy  pageant; 

Bards  are  finishers  of  language 
Unionlaboring  —  canst  imagine  't?  — 

For  a  small  and  daily  gang-wage. 

If  a  bard  would  only  grab  sense, 
And  would  think  in  manner  bardly, 

Would  he  rail  at  rhymes  their  absence? 
Would  he  do  it?    Would  he?    Hardly! 

Turn  'em  frontside,  inside,  outside, 
And  the  rhymes  will  surely  serve  us. 

Why,  if  I  had  any  doubts  I'd 
Be  considerably  nervous. 
105 


"IN  SUCH  A  NIGHT 


I  love  to  sing  of  the  winter  thing 
In  a  rugged  manner  and  bold; 

I  like  to  spill  of  the  bracing  chill, 
And  chant  of  the  tingling  cold. 

I  love  to  write  of  the  stormy  night, 
And  the  rage  of  the  sleet  and  hail; 

I'm  fain  to  tell  of  the  snowy  spell, 
And  speak  of  the  winds  that  wail. 

I  love  to  spiel  of  the  way  I  feel 
As  the  terrible  storm  destroys 

The  sturdy  ship  (in  the  manner  of  Kip- 
Ling,  Newbolt,  or  Alfred  Noyes). 

I  love  to  sing  of  the  winter  thing, 
In  a  vigorous,  yearnful  pome  — 

But  gosh !   how  I  fear  the  walk  from  here 
To  the  subway  bound  for  home! 


106 


CLOTHES,  THE  BIRTH  RATE,  ETC. 

When  as  in  silks  his  Julia  went 

Whom  Herrick  lyricized  with  passion, 

The  press  declared  Gehenna-sent 
Each  new  and  femininny  fashion. 

When  hoopskirts  made  their  wide  appeal, 
During  the  war  misnomered  Civil, 

The  papers  made  their  readers  feel 
The  girls  were  going  to  the  divil. 

And  in  the  days  of  sweeping  trains, 
And  sleeves  as  thick  as  Vallombrosa, 

They  said  that  women  had  no  brains  — 
Had  they  a  chance  for  Heaven?  No,  sah. 

And  in  these  here  x-radiant  days 
Of  grenadine  and  voile  and  dimit- 

Y,  press  and  pulpit,  in  amaze, 
Cry  out  aghast:   "This  is  the  limit!" 

107 


By  and  Large 

What  is  the  reason  for  this  piece? 
Why  did  I  spill  these  agonistics? 

Observe  each  year  the  great  increase 
In  vital,  so  to  speak,  statistics. 


108 


THE  DOWNWARD  COURSE 

[A  man  is  on  the  downward  course  when  the  thought  shapes  itself 
in  his  reveries  to  some  woman.— LAURA  JEAN  LIBBEY.] 

Totters  my  reason  as  I  think 

Of  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept, 
And  how  an  evil  worse  than  Drink 

Made  them  unhonored  and  unwept. 
A  man  is  on  the  downward  course 

When  woman-thoughts  buzz  in  his  bean  — 
I  quote  from  that  pellucid  source 

Of  cupid-counsel,  Lorajean. 

I  muse  how  Herrick  might  have  penned 

Some  snappy  stuff  to  give  him  fame 
Had  he  but  had  less  time  to  spend 

On  Julia  or  some  other  dame; 
How  "Goddess  excellently  bright" 

And  "Drink  to  Me"  by  rare  Ben  Jons- 
On  never  would  have  seen  the  light 

Had  saner  matters  filled  his  sconce. 


By  and  Large 

While  Moore,  had  he  but  put  his  time 

On  something  that  resembled  work, 
And  not  on  sentimental  rhyme, 

Might  have  been  an  insurance  clerk; 
Had  Burns,  whose  lines  are  all  in  praise 

Of  queens  (and  some,  I  own,  were  beauts), 
Not  mused  away  his  nights  and  days, 

He  might  have  been  in  cloaks-and-suits. 

The  Hall  of  Fame  is  filled  with  those 

Who  merit  well  the  Libbeyan  wrath, 
Who  shunned  the  upward  hills  of  prose 

And  coasted  on  the  "downward"  path. 
And  take  it  on  the  word  of  one* 

Who's  .coasted  from  the  Androscoggin 
To  Puget  Sound,  it's  lots  of  fun 

To  ride  upon  that  there  toboggan. 

*Oh,  dear,  no! 


no 


LINES     WRITTEN     AFTER      RE-READING 
GRAY'S  "ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUN 
TRY  CHURCH  YARD  "  AND  REALIZ 
ING  THAT  EIGHT  YEARS  WERE 
GIVEN  TO  ITS  COMPOSITION 

The  w.  k.  old  Thomas  Gray 

Took  eight  long  years  to  write  his  verses, 
The  "Elegy"  that  tells  how  we 

Some  day  must  ride  in  sable  hearses. 

And  yet  that  song  is  not  so  long; 

It's  only  twenty-eight  short  stanzas  — 
A  morning's  work  for  Old  Bill  Kirk, 

George  Fitch  or  Uncle  Walt  of  Kansas. 

If  only  I  had  time  to  try, 

(Thus  runs  my  frequent  meditation), 
My  fancy's  creature'd  surely  reach 

Perfection  in  poetization. 
in 


By  and  Large 
Yet,  looking  o'er  mine  eight  years'  lore, 

I  know,  though  flatterers  may  con  me, 
That  while  in  speed  I  may  exceed, 

In  thought  T.  Gray  had  something  on  me. 


iij 


ON  EMULATION 

[Like  Thackeray,  he  was  born  in  India;  like  Keats,  studied  medi 
cine  for  a  time;  and,  like  Coleridge,  there  was  a  period  when  he  had 
soldier  ambitions.  —  Publisher's  note  about  A.  S.  M.  Hutchinson 
author  of  "The  Happy  Warrior."] 

Like  Finley  Peter  Dunne,  I  lamped  the  light 
Of  morning  in  Chicago,  Illinois; 

And  yet  the  spanless  distance  from  his  height 
Is  just  as  great  as  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Like  H.  G.  Wells,  I  once  engaged  in  trade; 

Like  him  I  went  and  married  me  a  wife; 
A  parsnip  for  the  difference  that*  made! 

I  never  wrote  a  novel  in  my  life. 

Like  T.  Carlyle,  I  find  it  hard  to  sleep; 

I'm  no  misogynist  —  neither  was  Moore; 
Like  Hood,  I  suffer  sailing  o'er  the  deep  — 

Yet  nil  the  dent  I  make  in  Litrachoor. 

Like  Chesterton,  I'm  tardy  with  my  stuff; 

Like  Poe,  I  hate  to  labor  very  long; 
Yet  all  I  do  is  this  Facade  of  Fluff. 

There  must  be  something  radically  wrong. 

*Refers  to  trade,  by  request. 


BRIGHT  SAFFRON  SHEETS 

AFTER    "  BRIGHT   COLLEGE    YEARS " 

Bright  saffron  sheets  of  crime  and  strife, 

The  wildest  of  our  hectic  life, 

How  many,  many  times  a  day 

Ye  have  your  96-point  say ! 

The  papers  come,  the  papers  go, 

The  circulations  wane  and  grow  — 

This  be  your  slogan,  an  ye  burst: 

"For  God,  for  Country,  and  for  Hearst!" 

In  Mexico  when  troubles  rise, 

Who  is  the  wisest  of  the  wise? 

Who  gleams  like  Henry  of  Navarre? 

Who  but  our  hero,  Willie  R. ! 

What  benefits  the  human  race? 

War,  WAR!  —  all  o'er  the  well-known  place 

War  —  though  the  order  seem  reversed  — 

"For  God,  for  Country,  and  for  Hearst!" 


114 


DO  YOU  KNOW? 

I  shot  a  pome  into  the  Tower, 
It  showed  acumen,  skill,  and  power; 
Yet  no  one  grabbed  me  by  the  hand 
To  say:  "Old  kick,  this  stuff  is  grand!" 

But  some  one  went  to  work  and  wrote: 
"Dear  Sir:     You  are  a  rotten  pote"; 
Another  said :     "  You  have  no  style  " ; 
Another:     "My,  that  verse  is  vile!" 

And  so  I  thought:  "Why  slave  and  strive 
To  be  the  greatest  bard  alive? 
I'll  write  without  the  slightest  care 
For   words   and    rhythm   and    rhyme  —  so 
there!" 

Whereat  I  did  a  slipshod  rhyme 
And  said:  "To  print  it  were  a  crime." 
'Twas  printed    .    .    .    And  the  public  swore 
As  roundly  at  me  as  before. 


By  and  Large 

I  learn  from  these  two  flights  in  rhyme 
You  can't  please  people  all  the  time: 
In  fact,  though  earnest  your  endeavor, 
It's  difficult  to  please  'em  ever. 


116 


W.  S.  —  1564-1914 

WORDS  BY  SHAKESPEARE.  ARRANGEMENT  BY  US. 

O  how  I  faint  when  I  of  you  would  write ! 

My  tongue-tied  Muse  in  manners  holds 

her  still, 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 

New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill. 

My  verse  alone  had  all  thy  gentle  grace 
For  every  vulgar  paper  to  rehearse; 

My  black  is  fairest  in  thy  judgment's  face 
And  found  such  fair  assistance  in  my  verse. 

Imperial  Caesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 

By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 
Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous 

day? 

I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat. 
117 


By  and  Large 

What  hast  thou  then  more  than  thou  hadst 

before? 
They  placed  a  fruitless  crown  upon  my 

head. 
Like  as  the  waves  make  toward  the  pebbled 

shore, 
Weary  with  toil,  I  haste  me  to  my  bed. 


n  8 


COMPOSED  IN  THE  COMPOSING  ROOM 

At  stated  .ic  times 
I  love  to  sit  and  —  off  rhymes 
Till  ,tose  at  last  I  fall 
Exclaiming  "  I  don't  A  all." 

Though  I'm  an  *  objection 
By  running  this  in  this  here  § 
This  3V  of  the  Fleeting  Hour, 
This  lofty  -ician  Tower  — 

A  Tfer's  hope  dispels 

All  fear  of  deadly  ||. 

You  think  these  [  ]  are  a  pipe? 

Well,  not  on  your  feotype. 


119 


EUGENIC  LOVE  LYRICS 

Eugenevieve,  Eugenevieve, 
The  days  may  come,  the  days  may  go; 
But  each  to  other  we  shall  cleave, 
As  long  as  Science  tells  us  so. 

Rock-a-by,  baby,  thy  crib's  hygienic, 
Papa's  a  doctor  and  ma's  a  eugenic; 
And  don't  take  a  husband  unless  he's  a  gent 
Whose  mark  in  the  health  league's  one  hun 
dred  per  cent. 

Nut-brown  maiden,  thy  respiration's  perfect, 

love; 

Nut-brown  maiden,  thy  respiration's  fine, 
Thy  respiration's  fine,  love, 
I'll  say  the  same  for  mine,  love. 
Nut-brown  maiden,  thy  circulation's  normal^ 

love; 
Nut-brown    maiden,    thy    weight's   exactly 

right. 

120 


Eugenic  Love  Lyrics 

There  was  an  old  woman  who  lived  in  a  shoe, 
Her  progeny  numbered  about  thirty-two; 
But  she  gave  them  all  books  on  Eugenics  to 

read, 
Which  lessened  their  filial  affection,  indeed. 

Some  asked  me  where  affection  grew 
And  nothing  I  did  state; 
But  with  my  finger  pointed  to 
My  Julia's  perfect  weight. 

When  as  to  walk  my  Julia  goes 

Then,  then,  (methinks)  how  finely  shows 

Her  healthinesse  from  eyes  to  toes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
The  health  department's  guarantee, 
I  wis,  she  is  the  maid  for  me! 


12! 


SPEAKING  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

BORN    JANUARY   25,    1759 

As  bonnie  blaws  the  wind  the  nicht, 
An'  gowden  glists  the  fire,  an'  bricht 
O'er  Braidswa'  gleams  th'  electric  licht, 

My  fancy  turns, 
Wi'  a'  its  wee  bit  feckless  micht, 

To  Bobbie  Burns. 

Puir  mon,  we  celebrate  his  name 
An'  read  his  rhymes  in  ilka  hame; 
An'  yet,  if  back  to  airth  he  came 

The  nicht,  I  fancy 
We'd  hauld  his  Mary  up  to  blame, 

And  eke  his  Nancy. 

For  this,  I  say,  is  sooth,  ye  ken, 
In  Glasgie  Toun  or  Drumloch  Glen: 
"A  man's  a  man" — an'  men  are  men; 

An*  folk  forgive. 
(Ay,  that  they  do,  but  seldom  when 

The  sinners  live.) 

122 


Speaking  of  Robert  Burns 

Wi'  mickle  wae  my  teardrops  fa', 
For  dread  I  canna  get  awa' 
Wi'  phrases  mair  than  ane  or  twa 
In  tongue  forgotten. 

Yet  this,  though  I'm  nae  chiel  to  blaw, 
Isna  sae  rotten. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SWATTERLOO 

I  swat  the  fly  upon  the  ear 
It  falls  to  earth.     And  then,  oh,  dear! 
I  look  upon  the  window-pane 
And  see  a  dozen  still  unslain. 


133 


SPEAKING  OF  SUFFRAGE  - 

"When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
Unfurled "  you  know  the  rest. 

The  women,  bless  their  simple  souls, 

Sought  not  the  suffrage  at  the  polls  — 
They  made  no  mad  request. 

Yet  Freedom,  says  McMaster,  won 

At  Bunker  Hill  and  Lexington. 

"When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young — " 

You  know  the  line  I  quote  — 
The  maids  of  Athens,  beauteous  band, 
Made  never  a  hint  of  a  demand 

To  be  allowed  to  vote. 
Yet  I  recall,  without  fatigue, 
That  Hellas  led  the  Eastern  League. 

"When  Eve  upon  the  first  of  men 

The  apple  pressed  with  cant/' 
She  begged  no  ballot  as  a  boon 
To  keep  the  universe  in  tune, 

As  does  the  militant. 

Yet  —  had  the  home  not  been  her  sphere, 
The  snake  might  not  have  gained  her  ear. 
124 


THE  OPTATIVE  MOOD 

My  soul  to-day  is  far  away, 
Like  that  of  T.  Buchanan  Read's; 

And  I  am  fretful  with  the  bay  — 

(From  one  of  Richard  Hovey's  screeds), 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill! 

I  share  Old  Samuel  Rogers'  wish. 
To  sport  with  shady  Amaryll! 

Like  Milton  —  that  is  my  ambish. 

My  heart's  in  (you  remember  Burns?) 
I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 

For  when  it  comes  to  footless  yearns 
I  string  along  with  all  those  guys. 

I  sing  of  books,  of  blossoms,  birds  — 
Like  Herrick,  a  Pandean  piper; 

But  all  I  do  is  fix  up  words 
To  feed  a  laggard  linotyper. 
125 


By  and  Large 

Beside  the  idle  summer  sea 
I  long  to  see  the  roses  bloom. 

What  time  I  pen  this  poetree 
In  this  here  hot  composing  room. 


126 


LINES  ON  BLUSHING  FOR  "PUNCH" 

EXCITED  OLD  LADY  (as  express  thunders  through  station) :  "Oh, 
Porter,  doesn't  that  train  stop  here?" 
PORTER:  "No,  lydy,  it  doesn't  even  hesitate."  —Punch. 

Cr  ever  in  me  burned  poetic  fire, 

Or  ever  I  had  cut  my  second  teeth 
I  heard  the  laughsome  art  of  Mclntyre 
And  Heath. 

They  pulled  that  wheeze.     I  yelped  with 

joy,  and  then 

I  told  it  to  my  father  in  my  glee. 
"That  gag  was  old,"  he  said,  "in  Eighteen 
Twen- 

Ty  Three." 

"Our  Country's  Father,  better  known  as 

George, 
Would  spring  it,  just  to  keep  the  soldiers 

gay, 

That  woeful  winter  down  at  Valley  Forge, 
P-a. 

127 


By  and  Large 

"When  C.  J.  Caesar's  legions  were  oppressed, 

By  Vercingetorix's  hostile  horde, 
And  Julius  told  ambassadors  that  jest, 
They  roared. 

"And  when  the  afternoons  were  dull  and 

dark, 
And  Shem  was  looking  for  a  favoring 

breeze, 

Old  Noah  told  the  tourists  on  the  Ark 
That  wheeze. 

"And  Japheth  said:  'O  father,  that  is  old; 
Your  s.  of  h.   is  one  that  makes  me 

grieve. 

That  was  the  primal  jest  that  Adam  told 
To  Eve/  " 

Which  makes  it  pretty  hard  for  me.     For 

days 
To  those  with  whom  I  daily  spear  my 

lunch 

Alone  have  I  been  paeaning  the  praise 
Of  "Punch." 
128 


TO  THOSE  CONCERNED 

SPLITTING   THE   BLAME  WITH  THE   ESTATE  OF 
A.    TENNYSON. 

Ask  me  no  more;  water  may  flow  uphill; 

The  celebrated  sun  set  in  the  east; 

New  York  some  day  be  properly  policed; 
But,  suppliants,  there  be  limits  to  my  skill  — 
Ask  me  no  more! 

Ask  me  no  more:  confined  is  my  power, 
Though  thousands  bend  the  knee  at  my 

behest, 

Though  millions  giggle  at  my  feeblest  jest. 
Cease  writing,  phoning,  calling  every  hour; 
Ask  me  no  more! 

Ask  me  no  more:  were  Bourbon  I,  or  Guelph, 
Yet  should  I  answer  no  to  all  your  queries; 
No,  I  can't  get  you  tickets  for  The  Series  — 

I  don't  know  how  to  get  the  things  myself, 
ASK  ME  NO  MORE! 


129 


"I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER" 

I  remember,  I  remember, 
The  Sodom  Herald  said : 
"The  wave  of  crime  is  at  an  end; 

Corruption  now  is  dead/' 
And  the  Gomorrah  News  rejoiced, 

In  headlines  high  and  loud, 
"The  land  has  been  delivered  from 
That  awful  crooked  crowd/' 

I  remember,  I  remember, 
The  Nineveh  Gazette  — 
"No  longer  will  the  town  be  rife 

With  liquor  and  roulette/' 
And  how  the  Athens  Courier  cried 
That  graft  would  have  to  cease, 
And  that  would  rise  undimmed  again 
The  glory  that  was  Greece. 
130 


"/  Remember,  I  Remember" 

I  remember,  1  remember, 

Twelve,  eight,  four  years  ago  — 
The  things  the  optimistic  sheets 

Would  print  —  and  think  them  so. 
I  hate  to  take  the  cynic  pose, 

But  I'd  like  to  bet  a  lid 
The  millennium's  just  as  far  away 

As  when  I  was  a  kid. 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  NEW  HAVEN 

FATHERS  ON  NEW  ENGLAND 

AND  ENVIRONS 

The  Mellen  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rail-bound  coast, 

And  the  tracks  from  Boston  to  N.  Y. 
Were  (see  the  Evening  Post}. 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

As  Felicia  said  of  yore, 
When  a  band  of  directors  set  their  mark 

On  the  tame  New  England  shore. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

Led  by  their  president, 
And  the  theme  was  "Let  the  Public  Hang!" 

And  the  Tune  was  Eight  Per  Cent. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

(Pardon  my  noisy  mirth) 
The  N.Y.,  N.H.  &  H.R.R.— 

They  sought  the  well-known  earth. 
132 


The  Landing  of  the  New  Haven  Fathers 

Ay,  call  it  Mellen  ground, 

The  land  through  which  they  fare; 
They   have  done  full  well  with  what  they 
found  — 

Water  and  earth  and  air. 


-33 


WITH  GENUFLEXIONS 

A  crash,  a  crush,  a  crowding, 

A  mob  compact  and  tight, 
The  crime  of  every  morning, 

The  disgrace  of  every  night. 
A  service  skimped  and  shameful, 

A  system  pinched  and  punk, 
Some  call  it  Rapid  Transit, 

And  others  call  it  bunk. 

A  " block "  and  a  "crippled  service/ 

A  crush  and  a  stifling  wait, 
And  a  poison  in  the  atmosphere 

That  engenders  human  hate. 
But  there's  profits  in  the  subway, 

And  dividends  in  the  L  — 
Some  call  it  Rapid  Transit, 

And  others  call  it  hell. 


O  EVER  THUS! 

LINES  ON  HEARING  THE  RUMOR  THAT  THE  SUN  BUILDING, 
WHICH  IS  CONTIGUOUS  TO  OUR  NEW  OFFICE  WINDOWS,  IS  TO 
BE  TORN  DOWN,  AND  A  SKYSCRAPER  TO  *BE  ERECTED  IN  ITS 
PLACE. 

Aye,  tear  her  tattered  structure  down, 

Long  has  it  wabbled,  low, 
And  many  an  orb  has  ached  to  see 

That  building  on  the  Row; 
Beneath  it  rang  the  Dana  shout, 

And  burst  the  Laffan  roar; 
But  it  is  not  a-going  to  be 

Around  these  parts  no  more. 

1  weep  not  for  the  brighter  days 

And  nights  of  yesteryear; 
For  Chester  Lord  I  have  no  sigh, 

For  Clarke  I  shed  no  tear. 
But  ye  that  own  that  shambling  hulk 

Of  other  days'  renown, 
O  let  that  red  brick  structure  stand! 

Please  do  not  tear  it  down! 
135 


By  and  Large 

I  heard  the  Hudson  Terminal 

Go  up  for  two  whole  years; 
The  Singer  and  the  Woolworth  Towers 

Are  riveted  on  mine  ears; 
And  just  as,  where  I've  set  my  desk, 

A  pleasant  time  is  had, 
They  think  of  tearing  down  the  Sun, 

And  it  makes  me  awful  mad. 


136 


ON  THE  USUFRUCT  OF  WORRYING 

To  worry  is  futile; 

To  fret  is  a  strain ; 
To  mope  is  inutile 

And  wearies  the  brain. 
Depression  is  folly, 

A  carker  is  care; 
A  waste,  melancholy; 

A  tyrant,  despair. 

A  prey  is  injection; 

Depressing  is  gloom; 
Corroding  reflection, 

And  leads  to  the  tomb. 
Though  life  may  be  sweet,  I 

Envisage  the  grey, 
For  tcedium  mice, 

Has  got  me  to-day. 
137 


By  and  Large 

Yet  brooding  hath  uses 

That  one  may  employ, 
And  worry  produces 

As  surely  as  joy. 
Can  wakefulness  pay?    There 

Is  never  a  doubt. 
Last  night  as  I  lay  there 

I  figured  this  out. 


TO  THE  JUST  GRADUATED 

Youth  of  the  bounding  ambition, 
Out  in  the  strenuous  mob, 

Shall  you  Accept  a  Position? 
Or  will  you  Hunt  for  a  Job? 


138 


ON  MORNINGSIDE  HEIGHTS 

{Heard  in  the  vicinage  of  any  fraternity  house  any  open- window  evening.] 

Come,  landlord,  fill  the  Spanish  cav  and  I 

will  pledge  with  mine 
O  Genevieve,  sweet  Genevieve  and  everything 

so  fine 
For  every  little  movement  in  a  one-horse 

open  sleigh 
Where  are  the  verdant  freshmen  I'm  a  pilgrim 

old  dog  Tray. 

How  can  I  bear  to  ubi  sunt  o  pocula  to-night 
Ever  of  thee  I'm  just  a  song  sea-strand  and 

billows  white 
My  bonnie  lies  in  days  of  old  the  shades  of 

Upidee 
To  drive  dull  care  Columbia  on  a  weeping 

willow  tree. 


BALLADE  OF  A  JADED  IMAGINATION 

"Little  remains  to  be  told."  —  Old  Cap  Collier,  Nick  Carter 
Frank  Merriwell. 

When  I  was  vibrantly  young, 

(Well  I  remember  the  days) 
How  I  would  wander  among 

Carter's  and  Merriweirs  ways! 

Murder  and  plunder  and  blaze, 
And,  when  he  garnered  the  gold, 

This  was  my  favorite  phrase: 
Little  remains  to  be  told. 

Turning  to  songs  that  are  sung, 

Blushful,  unspeakable  lays, 
Songs  that  the  decent  of  tongue 

Utterly  shock  and  amaze; 

Filth  of  the  cheap  cabarets, 
Nothing  is  there  to  withhold. 

Say  every  word!    How  it  pays! 
Little  remains  to  be  told. 
140 


Ballade  of  a  Jaded  Imagination 

"Breathless  and  eager  they  clung." 

"Panting,  she  sent  back  his  gaze." 
"  Down  on  the  floor  she  was  flung." 
"  'Damn  you!'  she  crushed  her  bou 
quets." 

"  'Curse  you!'  came  back,  in  a  haze." 
"Why  is  your  nature  so  cold?" 

"Crash!  went  the  tottering  vase." 
Little  remains  to  be  told. 

L'ENVOI 

Authors  of  books  and  of  plays, 
Writers  of  songs  overbold, 

You're  at  the  crux  of  the  craze  — 
Little  remains  to  be  told 


141 


AS  TO  AN  URBAN  SUMMER 

Friend,  you  who  write  of  rural  joys 
Far  from  the  madding  old  metrop, 

Far  from  the  town's  unnerving  noise, 
Far  from  the  clamor  of  the  shop  — 

Know  you  how  fine  and  cool  it  is 
In  urbe  hac  (the  phrase  is  Latin 

For  this  here  little  village,  viz., 
To  wit:  Manhattan)? 

Know  you  the  town  is  full  of  folks? 

Know  you  the  shows  are  full  of  queens? 
That  every  mail  is  full  of  jokes 

Born  of  the  nation's  brightest  beans? 
At  least  one  ball  game  every  day; 

A  crime,  perhaps;  and  an  indictment  — 
Why,  nowhere  in  these  U.S.A. 
Is  more  excitement. 
142 


As  to  an  Urban  Summer 

Think  you  that  I  could  bear  to  lie 
Around  with  not  a  thing  to  do 

But  lamp  the  celebrated  sky 
And  mark  its  varying  shades  of  blue? 

Think  you  that  it  would  be  enough 
To  idle  all  the  summer  day  so? 

Could  I  endure  that  sort  of  stuff? 


Well,  I  should  say  so! 


143 


A  LEXICOGRAPHER'S  LOVE-POEM 

"Words  are  like  leaves;  and  where  they  most  abound 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found." 
Thus  Pope.     I  pray  you  note  that  he  said  "rarely," 
Or  ever  that  you  fudge  of  me  unfairly. 

Lady,  my  love,  my  nymph,  my  fay, 

Carissima,  desiderata, 
Divinely  fragrant  flow'r-o-May, 

Light  of  my  life,  persona  grata  — 

Beloved,  idol,  pixy,  sprite, 

Elf,  moppet,  fairy,  Main  Idea, 
My  fair,  my  Phantom  of  Delight, 

My  darling  and  my  Dulcinea  — 

Cherished,  adored,  revered,  admired, 

Enchantress,  true-love  and  heart's  nearest, 

Missed,  wanted,  coveted,  desired, 
Attraction,  jewel,  mopsey,  dearest  — 

144 


A  Lexicographer's  Love- Poem 

Inamorata,  magnet,  pearl, 

Venus,  allurement,  needed,  yearned  for, 
Whim,  fancy,  favorite,  angel,  girl, 

Height  of  ambition,  honey,  burned  for  — 

O  cara  mia,  hertz,  ma  belle, 

Duck,  empress,  queen,  and  consecration, 
Exalted,  blessed  damosel, 

Spark,  flame,  and  fire  of  inspiration  — 

Geliebte,  sweetheart,  longed  for,  pet, 

Star,  single  object  of  affection, 
League-leaderess  and  One  Best  Bet, 

Caprice,  wish,  whimsy,  predilection  — 

O  solar  system,  summit,  goal, 

You  peach,  you  precious  one,  you  sweet, 

you! 
My  beacon  bright,  my  Heart-and-Soul    .    .    . 

I  wonder  if  I'll  ever  meet  you. 


THE  WET  BLANKET  LEGION 

Whenas  for  fishing  I  am  fain 

And  avid  of  the  rod  and  reel, 
I  take  me  to  a  lake  in  Maine 

And  harken  to  the  woods'  appeal. 
Daily  I  fling  my  futile  line 

Employing  all  mine  Art  and  Reason ; 
"You  should/'  they  say,  when  1  repine, 

"Have  tried  it  earlier  in  the  season." 

Whenas  I  take  an  ocean  trip, 

The  waves  are  ninety  cubits  high; 
The  vessel  does  the  Mortal  Dip, 

And  I,  affrighted,  yearn  to  die. 
"Some  storm,  eh,  what?"  I  gasp,  as  who 

Should  say  "That  statement  is  fmific." 
Says  one:   "Why,  this  is  nothing  to 

A  storm  I  saw  on  the  Pacific." 
146 


The  Wet  Blanket  Legion 

I  make  a  journey  in  July 

Through  faery  forests  lined  in  green; 
Above  me  is  the  summer  sky  — 

A  wondrous  day,  a  perfect  scene. 
I  praise  the  picture.     "Oh,  tut,  tut!" 

Replies  my  friend,  the  village  printer, 
"The  woods  is  nice  in  summer,  BUT 

Ye  oughter  see  'em  in  the  winter." 

And  thus  it  is  where'er  I  go; 

I  fail  to  find  the  Perfect  State. 
Whether  my  step  be  swift  or  slow, 

I  go  too  soon  or  come  too  late. 

These  random  rhymes,  I  own,  may  be 
A  piece  of  pleasant  versifying. 

But,  bless  my  soul,  you  ought  to  see 
What  I  can  do  when  I  am  trying. 


147 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  Q.  HORATIUS 
FLACCUS* 

Horace:  Book  III,  Ode  30. 

AD   MELPOMENEN. 
Exegi  monumentum  aere  perennius 
Regalique  situ  pyramidum  altius. 

Reader,  the  monument  that  I've 
Erected  ever  shall  survive 
As  long  as  brass;  and  it  shall  stay 
Despite  the  stormiest,  wildest  day. 
Though  winds  assail,  yet  shall  it  stand 
High  as  the  pyramids,  and  grand. 
Eternally  my  name  will  be 
Triumphant  in  posterity. 
Recurrent  will  my  praises  sound; 
I  shall  be  terribly  renowned. 
Born  though  I  was  of  folk  obscure, 
Unknown,  I  spilled  Some  Literature. 
Now,  O  Melpomene,  my  queen 
Entwine  the  laurel  on  my  bean ! 

*From  the  Evening  Mail,  Dec.  31,1913. 
THE   END 


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